“Ass,” said Bill, putting an elbow into Antony’s ribs. “It’s a little difficult to say,” he went on. “Of course they do you awfully well here.” “Yes. I don’t think I know any house where things are so comfortable. One’s room—the food—drinks—cigars—the way everything’s arranged. All that sort of thing. They look after you awfully well.” “Yes?” “Yes.” He repeated it slowly to himself, as if it had given him a new idea: “They look after you awfully well. Well, that’s just what it is about Mark. That’s one of his little ways. Weaknesses. Looking after you.” “Arranging things for you?” “Yes. Of course, it’s a delightful house, and there’s plenty to do, and opportunities for every game or sport that’s ever been invented, and, as I say, one gets awfully well done; but with it all, Tony, there’s a faint sort of feeling that—well, that one is on parade, as it were. You’ve got to do as you’re told.” “How do you mean?” “Well, Mark fancies himself rather at arranging things. He arranges things, and it’s understood that the guests fall in with the arrangement. For instance, Betty—Miss Calladine—and I were going to play a single just before tea, the other day. Tennis. She’s frightfully hot stuff at tennis, and backed herself to take me on level. I’m rather erratic, you know. Mark saw us going out with our rackets and asked us what we were going to do. Well, he’d got up a little tournament for us after tea—handicaps all arranged by him, and everything ruled out neatly in red and black ink—prizes and all—quite decent ones, you know. He’d had the lawn specially cut and marked for it. Well, of course Betty and I wouldn’t have spoilt the court, and we’d have been quite ready to play again after tea—I had to give her half-fifteen according to his handicap—but somehow—” Bill stopped and shrugged his shoulders. “It didn’t quite fit in?” “No. It spoilt the effect of his tournament. Took the edge off it just a little, I suppose he felt. So we didn’t play.” He laughed, and added, “It would have been as much as our place was worth to have played.” “Do you mean you wouldn’t have been asked here again?” “Probably. Well, I don’t know. Not for some time, anyway.” “Really, Bill?” “Oh, rather! He’s a devil for taking offence. That Miss Norris—did you see her—_she’s_ done for herself. I don’t mind betting what you like that _she never_ comes here again.” “Why?” Bill laughed to himself. “We were all in it, really—at least, Betty and I were. There’s supposed to be a ghost attached to the house. Lady Anne Patten. Ever heard of her?” “Never.”