“But what does she want to tell us for? We are nothing in her young life.” “She wants us to go play with her,” explained Sam gently. “Nobody can play lawn tennis by themselves. She wants _you_, boy.” “Where does it say that?” enquired the incredulous James. “It doesn’t say it. The English don’t say it. It would sound too eager. They just mention the event casually, and if you want to go you can.” “But I don’t want to go.” “Well, write and say so.” “Why? It doesn’t tell me to do that on the card.” “Doesn’t it? Jim Hollis, haven’t you got any sisters to tell you what things mean? Look at that R.S.V.P. down there! That’s the reference-number of the file, and you quote it in replying.” Jim paled. “Listen, how do you address anybody like that?” he enquired, despairingly. Sam’s eyes twinkled. “Ask the Adjutant,” he advised. Reference to that overworked official elicited the information that the invitation had already been accepted by the Colonel on behalf of the Mess, and that if the regiment were still in England on July the sixth two or three officers would be detailed to accompany him to Broadoak Park. “Me for the backwoods on the sixth!” murmured Master Hollis fervently. But the very next day, as Jim and Sam were toiling up the hill to the camp after inspecting the cathedral, they were overtaken by an elderly automobile. It drew up beside them, and a rather gruff voice enquired: “Won’t you get in and let me drive you up to the camp? I am going that way, anyhow.” They accepted gratefully—it was a blazing hot day—and presently found themselves chatting composedly, with the American’s natural instinct for easy conversation, with a high-nosed, deep-voiced old lady in black. “One ought to be thankful to be able to drive anywhere these days,” remarked their hostess—“let alone give any one a lift. Do you know how much petrol the Controller allows me? Ten gallons a month! And I live five miles from a railway station! It used to be six gallons, but I get a little more now because I am taking in more patients. My house is a hospital, you know.” They did not know; but it did not seem to matter, for the old lady continued: “I hope you are coming to my tennis-party on the sixth. You will meet some charming girls—mostly V.A.D.’s. You got a card, I suppose?” Jim, shrinking back into the cushions, pressed uneasily upon the toe of his brother officer. But Lady Wyvern-Gryphon swept on: