“I cannot laugh,” said Mr. Fothersley. His voice, even though addressing Lady Condor, held a word of rebuke. “We should never have called! It enrages me to think that we should have submitted to such—such——” Words failed him. “However,” he added, “we have reason to be thankful we did not call on the St. Ubes. I gathered to-day that the name, which might easily have misled us, was originally _Stubbs_. I shall _not_ call. These Pithey people——” Again words failed him, and Lady Condor chuckled. “Mrs. Pithey disapproves of me,” she announced. “She is probably telling Mr. Pithey that I paint. I must own it is very badly done to-day; Mullins was in a temper. She always makes me up badly when she is in a temper. Now do let us enjoy ourselves! Let us forget the Pithian invasion. Thank you—and some cake—yes. And some one else must have some tea to keep me company. Dear Nita—yes. The poor hostess never gets enough tea. Now this is cosy. And where are my glasses? I have not _looked_ at the tennis yet. And I know it is very good. And I have not spoken to dear Violet, or to Fred. And there, why surely they are playing together. Did they draw together? How strange! The child is lovelier than ever. And now they have finished. Bring them to have tea with me. What is Fred now? A major! Isn’t it too ridiculous? And I suppose those little boys you have brought with you in R.A.F. uniforms are Brigadier-Generals. And have you won the tournament, my dears?” “No,” said Fred Riversley. He and Violet had shaken hands and had waited till Lady Condor stopped for breath. “No. I played very badly. Even Vi couldn’t pull me through.” He was a fair heavily-built young man, and while the ladies talked, all three seemingly at once, for Lady Condor rarely ceased, he sat down on the grass and was at once the centre of attraction for the five dogs. When a momentary pause occurred, he asked, “How’s Dudley?” “Dudley,” said Lady Condor, “has got his aluminium leg. It is really too wonderful. You’d never guess it wasn’t a real live leg—unless he tries to run, which of course he mustn’t do. But everything else. And John, we had letters from only yesterday. Russia—yes—and Heaven knows when we’ll get him back. And where is your Harry? Why, it seems only yesterday he was retrieving tennis balls in a sailor suit!” “Harry is stuck at Marseilles,” said Riversley, “on his way to Egypt. Doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him till Peace is signed.” The little group fell on a sudden silence, a silence that the steady thud of the tennis balls, the call of the scores, the applause, did not touch. A shadow seemed to cross the sunbathed lawns and brilliant flower-beds. There were others whom they all remembered, of whom no one would ever ask for news again. Riversley got up and carried the empty cups back to the tea-table. Then he stood and watched the tennis for a little space.