The car swung round the last curve with a splutter of gravel, and slowed down as it approached the door. The occupants of the back seats appeared to be engaged with a struggling object in the bottom of the car, but gradually the turmoil subsided, and four flushed, grinning faces appeared over the side. The car stopped and the passengers emerged, disentangling suit-cases, fishing-rods, and golf-clubs from the rugs. The chauffeur sat like a graven image with the expression of a man who has done his best to instruct and entertain an audience without hope of either recompense or acknowledgment on this side of the grave. “_Nous sommes arrivés_,” crowed the stout Jerome, still panting from his exertions; together they passed through into the lofty panelled hall in a babble of chaff and laughter. “The stars in their courses fought for us. We are reunited, my children, after--how many years is it? Very clever of you to arrange it.” “Tony,” said another, “that chauffeur of yours flicked your old bus along to some tune. He’s a star-turn.” Aughtlone nodded resignedly. “He’s supposed to be suffering from shell-shock and a piece of shrapnel in the apex of the heart. You wouldn’t somehow suspect it, would you? Bag anything?” “Only a hen,” said Foster, surrendering his suit-case to the butler and exploring amid decanters and a siphon on a side table. “D.D.[5] She lost her nerve and tried to nip across the road. Say when, Jerry....” The stout one accepted the long tumbler. “Thanks.... Heigh-ho! Very nice too.... Yes, that was all the damage.” He contemplated their host over the rim of his glass. “You appear to own half the county, Tony---- don’t grudge us a hen.” “I grudge you nothing,” replied Aughtlone. He surveyed his guests affectionately. “It’s so jolly good getting you all together like this--at least, all of us that are----” “Quite ...” said Foster, with a sudden note of seriousness in his tone. “You look hot,” said Brakespear, changing the conversation, himself immaculate in white flannels, with sleekly brushed head. “All very fine for you to talk,” said the fat man with the eagle of the Navy-that-Flies on the sleeve of his monkey-jacket. “Only crossed over from Dunkirk this morning by the destroyer. Fell in with these--Thugs at Waterloo, and spent the best part of the journey under the seat.” “We had to strafe him,” explained Longridge. “Twice in the train and once in the car. He would try and kiss his hand to all the loveliest of God’s creatures we saw.” Their host groaned. “What was she like--the last one, I mean?” “In a governess cart,” said Mayhew, “with two kids and a pink hat.” The Flying Man put down his glass. “The pink hat may have been hers,” he said, “but I’m blowed if----” “No,” said Aughtlone quickly. “No, they’re her nieces. That’s the vicar’s daughter. ‘Mr. Jerome, you’ll get me ’ung,’ as Harker used to say.”