After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painted a young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn’t to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah’s Ark. One fished up yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems.... He thought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was open; sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and an equally loud “Sh!” They had remembered him. William got up and went through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the quiet. “I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.” A tragic moan from Moira. “We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The Maid of the Mountains.’” “Oh no! Oh no!” cried Isabel’s voice. “That’s not fair to William. Be nice to him, my children! He’s only staying until to-morrow evening.” “Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good at looking after people.” The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had seen him. “Hallo, William!” And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. “Pity you didn’t come, William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and had sloe gin.” The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, “would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?” “No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. We’re all starving. William’s starving, too. Come along, _mes amis_, let’s begin with sardines.” “I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and she ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air. “A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely. “Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky. “Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William. “Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine.