"You must have got your feet damp last night," said Lady Coote. "I hope you won't get pneumonia. Freddie Richards died of it the other day. Dear me, Oswald, it makes my blood run cold to think of you wandering about with a dangerous burglar loose in the grounds. He might have shot you. I've asked Mr. Thesiger down for next week-end, by the way." "Nonsense," said Sir Oswald. "I won't have that young man in my house, do you hear, Maria?" "Why not?" "That's my business." "I'm so sorry, dear," said Lady Coote placidly. "I've asked him now, so it can't be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?" Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle. "I particularly don't want Thesiger down next week-end," he said at last. "I've heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him." "What did Mr. Bateman say?" "He'd no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him." "He did, did he?" said Lady Coote thoughtfully. "And I have the highest respect for Bateman's judgment. I've never known him wrong." "Dear me," said Lady Coote. "What a mess I seem to have made of things. Of course, I should never have asked him if I had known. You should have told me all this before, Oswald. It's too late now." She began to roll up her work very carefully. Sir Oswald looked at her, made as if to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He followed her into the house. Lady Coote, walking ahead, wore a very faint smile on her face. She was fond of her husband, but she was also fond--in a quiet, unobtrusive, wholly womanly manner--of getting her own way. CHAPTER XXVI MAINLY ABOUT GOLF "That friend of yours is a nice girl, Bundle," said Lord Caterham. Loraine had been at Chimneys for nearly a week, and had earned the high opinion of her host--mainly because of the charming readiness she had shown to be instructed in the science of the mashie shot. Bored by his winter abroad, Lord Caterham had taken up golf. He was an execrable player and in consequence was profoundly enthusiastic over the game. He spent most of his mornings lofting mashie shots over various shrubs and bushes--or, rather, essaying to loft them, hacking large bits out of the velvety turf and generally reducing MacDonald to despair. "We must lay out a little course," said Lord Caterham, addressing a daisy. "A sporting little course. Now then, just watch this one, Bundle. Off the right knee, slow back, keep the head still and use the wrists." The ball, heavily topped, scudded across the lawn and disappeared into the unfathomed depths of a great bank of rhododendrons.