‘“Where did you get that tile?” did not come in. But I think we ought to speak to our auntie, Susan, don’t you? That sort of thing is very well outside, but in a church! Betty, you look as if you’d love to speak to somebody. We’ll put you on for this job. You shall expostulate with Aunt Jemima on her deplorable weakness for low-class comic songs.’ ‘I shall leave you to interview her on the subject,’ says Betty. ‘Interview! What a splendid word!’ says Dom. ‘What’ll you sell it for?’ But Betty very properly decides on not hearing him. Softly, sweetly, the sun is going down, topping the distant hills, and now falling behind them. A golden colour is lighting all around. Overhead the swallows are darting here and there, and from the beds of mignonette in the old-fashioned garden exquisite perfumes are wafted; and now ‘at shut of evening flowers’ faint breezes rise, and corners grow rich in shadows, and from the stream below comes a song that makes musical the happy hours. Crosby, with a sigh of distinct regret, rises to his feet. ‘I fear I must go,’ says he. ‘What, not so soon?’ cries Carew, getting up too. Indeed, as Crosby persists, though evidently with reluctance, in his determination to leave them, they all get up, the innate courtesy of this noisy group being their best point. ‘Have another cigarette for the walk home?’ says Dom hospitably. ‘We’ll all go with you to the gate!’ cries Betty. ‘I suppose a big traveller like you doesn’t play tennis?’ says Carew diffidently, but with an essence of hope in his tone. ‘Oh, don’t I!’ says Crosby; ‘I’m quite a dab at it, I can tell you! If I were to come down to-morrow afternoon, would there be any chance that any of you would be here to play a game with me?’ He looks at Susan. ‘We’ll all be here!’ cries Betty ecstatically. To have a new element thrown into their daily games seems too enchanting for anything. ‘You will come?’ ‘May I?’ says Crosby. Susan has not answered, and now he purposely addresses her. ‘Oh, I hope you will!’ says she cordially. She had been thinking hurriedly if it would be possible to ask him to luncheon—to their early dinner. But with the children and Jane’s attendance! Oh no—a thousand times no! Yet it seems so inhospitable. ‘Thank you, I should very much like to come. It is quite taking pity on an unfortunate bachelor,’ says he. And this being settled, they all in a body prepare to accompany him to the gate. Even little Tom runs up to them, and Bonnie, with uneven steps, hurries as fast as the poor mite can. Susan turns to help him, and Crosby, watching her for a moment, follows her, and, taking the child in his arms, without a word swings him to his shoulder. At the gate, having bidden them good-bye, and Dom having taken Bonnie on his back for a race home, Crosby looks at Susan. ‘Are you fond of cherries?’ asks he. His face is profoundly grave, but she can see the twinkle in his eyes, and her own give him back a reproachful glance.