telegraphic style.

"Weeds grow like house afire.  Can't keep even with 'em.  Shall
press you in.  Better be careful."

"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I
responded.

"Don't say it.  Never does.  Wish you hadn't later."

"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.  "Where's tea
to-day--inside or out?"

"Out.  Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."

"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day.  'The
labourer is worthy of his hire', you know.  Come and be
refreshed."

"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm
inclined to agree with you."

She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the
shade of a large sycamore.

A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps
to meet us.

"My wife, Hastings," said John.

I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish.  Her tall,
slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense
of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those
wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any
other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of
stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the
impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised
body--all these things are burnt into my memory.  I shall never
forget them.

She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low
clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly
glad that I had accepted John's invitation.  Mrs. Cavendish gave
me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first
impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman.  An
appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in
a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in
a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess.  John,
of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a
brilliant conversationalist.

At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open
French window near at hand:

"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write
to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself.  Or shall we wait
until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady
Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the
second.  Then there's the Duchess--about the school fete."

There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's
rose in reply:

"Yes, certainly.  After tea will do quite well.  You are so
thoughtful, Alfred dear."

The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome
white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of
features, stepped out of it on to the lawn.  A man followed her,
a suggestion of deference in his manner.

Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.

"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings,
after all these years.  Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings--my
husband."

I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling".  He certainly
struck a rather alien note.  I did not wonder at John objecting
to his beard.  It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever
seen.  He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious
impassivity of feature.  It struck me that he might look natural
on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life.  His
voice was rather deep and unctuous.  He placed a wooden hand in
mine and said:

"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife:
"Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp."

She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every
demonstration of the tenderest care.  Strange infatuation of an
otherwise sensible woman!

With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and
veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company.  Miss
Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings.
Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual.  Her
volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the
intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of
conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar