“Well, so I thought,” said North. “I can tell you I dreaded going. But the old place is full of a—a strange sort of rest. I didn’t realize how full of bitterness and resentment I had been until sitting there it all dropped away from me. It was as if a stone had been rolled away. I hadn’t realized how it was hurting until it left off.” He spoke disjointedly, and as if almost against his will. He was glad when the sound of his wife’s and Mr. Fothersley’s approaching voices made Violet release his hand and stand up. “You think Thorpe would lay my devils too?” she asked, looking down at him. “I think,” he said gravely, “it is worth trying.” CHAPTER IV Mrs. North’s tennis party pursued its usual successful career in the brilliant sunshine, which, as Mr. Fothersley remembered, always favoured her. Fred Riversley had brought an unexpected carload of R. A. F. boys down from London with him. This made a tournament possible, as Mrs. North saw at once. They drew partners with much fun and laughter. Mr. Fothersley telephoned to Fairbridge for a selection of prizes to be sent out by the 4.30 bus. It was one of the charming sort of things which Mr. Fothersley did. It was more particularly nice of him on this particular afternoon than usual, because, so far as Mr. Fothersley was concerned, Mr. Pithey was making it almost unbearable. He was a large, flat, pale yellow gentleman, with a peculiarly penetrating metallic voice. He had a very long nose, with a broad tip curving upwards, and small keen eyes which darted everywhere. Without the slightest hesitation he took the place which from time immemorial belonged to Mr. Fothersley at all Mentmore parties. Under the beech-tree, where by all the rights of precedence Mr. Fothersley should have led the conversation, Mr. Pithey’s metallic voice held sway and drove all before it. In the usual walk round the garden, always personally conducted by Mr. Fothersley and his hostess, Mr. Pithey laid down the correct lines on which to bed out, to grow carnations, to keep down weeds, or anything else that cropped up. When Mr. Fothersley drew attention to the fact that on any of the courts the final of the hard-fought set was in progress, it was Mr. Pithey’s voice that drowned all others as he shouted “Well played!” and gave advice to all concerned. In fact, Mr. Pithey dominated the party. Mrs. Pithy, a small blue-faced lady, very expensively dressed, sat in a comfortable basket chair with her feet on a stool and, unless actually asked a question, she spoke to no one except her husband, whom she always addressed by name. Bertie when she remembered, ’Erb when she forgot.