Lady Coote was not nearly so happy about it. She was a lonely woman. The principal relaxation of her early married life had been talking to "the girl"--and even when "the girl" had been multiplied by three, conversation with her domestic staff had still been the principal distraction of Lady Coote's day. Now, with a pack of housemaids, a butler like an archbishop, several footmen of imposing proportions, a bevy of scuttling kitchen and scullery maids, a terrifying foreign chef with a "temperament" and a housekeeper of immense proportions who alternately creaked and rustled when she moved, Lady Coote was as one marooned on a desert island. She sighed now, heavily, and drifted out through the open window, much to the relief of Jimmy Thesiger who at once helped himself to more kidneys and bacon on the strength of it. Lady Coote stood for a few moments tragically on the terrace and then nerved herself to speak to MacDonald, the head gardener, who was surveying the domain over which he ruled with an autocratic eye. MacDonald was a very chief and prince among head gardeners. He knew his place--which was to rule. And he ruled--despotically. Lady Coote approached him nervously. "Good-morning, MacDonald." "Good-morning, m'lady." He spoke as head gardeners should speak--mournfully, but with dignity--like an emperor at a funeral. "I was wondering--could we have some of those late grapes for dessert to-night?" "They're no fit for picking yet," said MacDonald. He spoke kindly but firmly. "Oh," said Lady Coote. She plucked up courage. "Oh! but I was in the end house yesterday, and I tasted one and they seemed very good." MacDonald looked at her, and she blushed. She was made to feel that she had taken an unpardonable liberty. Evidently the late Marchioness of Caterham had never committed such a solecism as to enter one of her own hothouses and help herself to grapes. "If you had given orders, m'lady, a bunch should have been cut and sent in to you," said MacDonald severely. "Oh, thank you," said Lady Coote. "Yes, I will do that another time." "But they're no properly fit for picking yet." "No," murmured Lady Coote. "No, I suppose not. We'd better leave it then." MacDonald maintained a masterly silence. Lady Coote nerved herself once more. "I was going to speak to you about the piece of lawn at the back of the rose garden. I wondered if it could be used as a bowling green. Sir Oswald is very fond of a game of bowls." "And why not?" thought Lady Coote to herself. She had been instructed in her history of England. Had not Sir Francis Drake and his knightly companions been playing a game of bowls when the Armada was sighted? Surely a gentlemanly pursuit and one to which MacDonald could not reasonably object. But she had reckoned without the predominant trait of a good head gardener, which is to oppose any and every suggestion made to him. "Nae doot it could be used for that purpose," said MacDonald noncommittally.