“I believe she is quite possible from all I have heard,” said Mr. Fothersley, adroitly lighting Mrs. North’s cigarette, which had gone out. “As you know, I mean to call myself, if you would prefer to wait for my report.” “Thank you. But may as well come with you. I shall probably be a help, and you see Roger says she is a lady, and, funnily enough, he really knows. I expect she is as dull as ditchwater; I hear she was something in the nature of a companion before she came into some money. But anything must be better than the Pitheys.” She shuddered as she replenished Mr. Fothersley’s wineglass. “They appear from all accounts to be very bad,” sighed Mr. Fothersley. “I could bear their commonness,” said Mrs. North, “one has got used to it these days, when one meets everyone everywhere, but it is the man’s self-satisfaction that is so overpowering. However, I am depending on you to look after him this afternoon. Roger won’t, and Violet is nearly as bad. I don’t know if you have noticed it, but Violet is getting Roger’s nasty sarcastic way of saying things, and she always seems to back him up now against me.” Her pretty eyes were tearful, and Mr. Fothersley looked distressed. “Dear Violet has never been the same since poor Carey’s death,” he said. Mrs. North agreed. “And yet, as you know,” she added, “I never really approved of the engagement. Poor Dick was a dear—no one could help liking him; but, after all, there was no getting away from the fact that he was old enough to be her father, and besides he was not very well off, and owing to Roger’s folly, wasting his money as he has, we could not have made Violet a big allowance. Really, you know, Fred is a much better match for her in every way.” “Quite, quite,” assented Mr. Fothersley. “But there is no doubt she felt Carey’s death very much at the time. I certainly have noticed a difference in her since, which her marriage has not dispelled. But indeed all the young people seem altered since this terrible war—there is—how shall I put it?—a want of reticence—of respect for the conventions.” Mr. Fothersley shook his head. “I regret it very much—very much.” In the meantime North and his daughter had wandered out into the shade of the great beech-tree which was the crowning glory of an exquisite lawn. The garden was in full perfection this wonderful May, and the gardeners were busy putting the finishing touches before the afternoon’s party. Not a weed or stray leaf was to be seen. Every edge was clipped to perfection. The three tennis courts were newly marked out, their nets strung to the exact height, while six new balls were neatly arranged on each service line. Presently Mrs. North would come out and say exactly where each chair and table should go.