“Well, I don’t intend to let those boys pick up my balls when I play.” “They won’t have the chance, Miss North. We should simply massacre them if they attempted it. Oh, here’s the Major--and the Commissioner!” Dick was still in uniform, and the man who emerged with him from under the archway was quite thrown into the shade by his magnificence, but the contrast did not appear to afflict Mr Burgrave, even if he noticed it. He crossed the shadowed court with slow, deliberate steps, apparently unaware that he was interrupting the game, talking all the time to Dick, who listened courteously, but without conviction. “What a curious face it is!” muttered Georgia involuntarily, as the Commissioner stepped into the line of light cast by a lamp in one of the rooms. “Yes, doesn’t he look the pig-headed brute he is?” was the joyful response of Fitz, who had overheard her. “No, that’s not it. He looks obstinate enough, but there is something benevolent about the face--nothing cruel or mean. It’s the face of a fanatic.” “Oh no, Mrs North! There’s bound to be something good about even a fanatic at bottom, I suppose. Won’t you say a doctrinaire?” “If you prefer it. I mean a man who has formed certain opinions, and allows neither facts nor arguments to prevent his forcing them upon other people.” “Ah, Mrs North!” The Commissioner was bowing before Georgia with the somewhat exaggerated courtesy which, combined with his paternal manner, caused impatient young people to brand his demeanour as patronising. “And are you very much incensed against me for keeping your husband so busy all day?”