“Don’t you play?” she said; “they are just looking for some one to make up the game. It would be so kind of you to join them. I know they are rather young for you, Mr. St. Clair, but it would be all the more kind if you were to play.” “It would be too kind,” he said; he had all his wits about him; “they do not care for grandfathers like myself. Let me look on as becomes my years, or, better still, let me help you. There must be some lady of my own standing who wants to be helped to some tea.” “You are too quick for me,” she said; “you know that is not what I mean; you must not stay among the dowagers. The girls would never forgive me if I kept all the best men here.” “Ah, is that so?” he said. “But we are making ourselves very useful. Your son is taking charge of Miss Trevor, who is a very important person, and requires a great deal of attention, and I am handing the cake. Mrs. Walford, you will surely take some; I am charged to point out to you how excellent it is.” “It is too good for me,” said the old lady whom he addressed, shaking all the flowers on her bonnet. She was the curate’s mother, and she thought it her duty to back her hostess up. “You should not mind us, Mr. St. Clair; the girls will be quite jealous if they see all the young men handing cake.” “Then I must take it to Miss Trevor,” St. Clair said. Meanwhile Ray was taking advantage of his opportunity. “Won’t you come for a turn, Miss Trevor? Some fellows are so pushing they never know when they are wanted. Do come if it was just to give him the slip. Why should he be always hanging on here? Why ain’t he doing something? If a fellow is out in the world, he ought to stay out in the world, not come poking about here.” “He is not strong, he is not well enough for his profession,” Lucy said. “Oh, that is bosh. I beg your pardon, Miss Trevor, but only look at him, he is _fat_. If he is not strong it is the more shame for him, it is because he has let himself get out of training,” Ray said. Lucy glanced at St. Clair with the cake in his hand, and a very small laugh came from her. She could not restrain it altogether, but she was ashamed of it. He _was_ fat. He was more handsome than Ray, and a great deal more amusing; and he had an interest to her besides which no one understood. She could not dismiss from her mind the idea that he was a man to be helped, and yet she could not but laugh, though with a compunction. A man who can be called fat appeals to no one’s sympathies. She had got up rather reluctantly on Raymond’s invitation, but he had not succeeded in drawing her attention to himself. She was still standing in the same place when St. Clair hastened back. “You are going round the grounds,” he said, “_à la bonne heure_ take me with you, please, and save me from croquet. I don’t know the mysteries of the labyrinths, the full extent of Mr. Rushton’s grounds.” “Oh, there is no labyrinth,” Lucy said.