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like an extinct saurian, but Gombauld was altogether and essentially human. In the old-fashioned natural histories of the ‘thirties he might have figured in a steel engraving as a type of Homo Sapiens – an honour which at that time commonly fell to Lord Byron. Indeed, with more hair and less collar, Gombauld would have been completely Byronic – more than Byronic, even, for Gombauld was of Provençal descent, a black-haired young corsair of thirty, with flashing teeth and luminous large dark eyes. Denis looked at him enviously. He was jealous of his talent: if only he wrote verse as well as Gombauld painted pictures! Still more, at the moment, he envied Gombauld his looks, his vitality, his easy confidence of manner. Was it surprising that Anne should like him? Like him? – it might even be something worse, Denis reflected bitterly, as he walked at Priscilla’s side down the long grass terrace.
    Between Gombauld and Mr Scogan a very much lowered deck-chair presented its back to the new arrivals as they advanced towards the tea-table. Gombauld was leaning over it;his face moved vivaciously; he smiled, he laughed, he made quick gestures with his hands. From the depths of the chair came up a sound of soft, lazy laughter. Denis started as he heard it. That laughter – how well he knew it! What emotions it evoked in him! He quickened his pace.
    In her low deck-chair Anne was nearer to lying than to sitting. Her long, slender body reposed in an attitude of listless and indolent grace. Within its setting of light brown hair her face had a pretty regularity that was almost doll-like. And indeed there were moments when she seemed nothing more than a doll; when the oval face, with its long-lashed, pale blue eyes, expressed nothing; when it was no more than a lazy mask of wax. She was Henry Wimbush’s own niece; that bowler-like countenance was one of the Wimbush heirlooms; it ran in the family, appearing in its female members as a blank doll-face. But across this dollish mask, like a gay melody dancing over an unchanging fundamental bass, passed Anne’s other inheritance – quick laughter, light ironic amusement, and the changing expressions of many moods. She was smiling now as Denis looked down at her: her cat’s smile, he called it, for no very good reason. The mouth was compressed, and on either side of it two tiny wrinkles had formed themselves in her cheeks. An infinity of slightly malicious amusement lurked in those little folds, in the puckers about the half-closed eyes, in the eyes themselves, bright and laughing between the narrowed lids.
    The preliminary greetings spoken, Denis found an empty chair between Gombauld and Jenny and sat down.
    â€˜How are you, Jenny?’ he shouted at her.
    Jenny nodded and smiled in mysterious silence, as though the subject of her health were a secret that could not be publicly divulged.
    â€˜How’s London been since I went away?’ Anne inquired from the depth of her chair.
    The moment had come; the tremendously amusing narrative was waiting for utterance. ‘Well,’ said Denis, smiling happily, ‘to begin with . . .’
    â€˜Has Priscilla told you of our great antiquarian find?’ Henry Wimbush leaned forward; the most promising of buds was nipped.
    â€˜To begin with,’ said Denis desperately, ‘there was the Ballet . . .’
    â€˜Last week,’ Mr Wimbush went on softly and implacably, ‘we dug up fifty yards of oaken drain-pipes; just tree trunks with a hole bored through the middle. Very interesting indeed. Whether they were laid down by the monks in the fifteenth century, or whether . . .’
    Denis listened gloomily. ‘Extraordinary!’ he said, when Mr Wimbush had finished; ‘quite extraordinary!’ He helped himself to another slice of cake. He didn’t even want to tell his tale about London now; he was damped.
    For some time past Mary’s grave blue eyes had been fixed