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the Catchment Board, didn't he? And he'd be bound to feel very badly about it, particularly if Mr Warrenby Was appointed instead of him. But I oughtn't to give my opinion,' she added hastily.

    'Well, well, it isn't such a great matter, after all!' said the Squire. 'We must see what Haswell thinks.'

    'Dad won't support Warrenby, sir,' interpolated Charles. 'I know that. For one thing, he's dead against hurting poor old Drybeck's feelings.

    'Charles!' said his mother, with a warning glance towards the tennis-court. • 'All right, Mum: they can't hear us. And, for another, he's just about had Warrenby, muscling into every damned thing here!'

    'Nor is he alone in his surfeit,' said Gavin. 'I too shall oppose Warrenby. I feel sure Walter would have: he always opposed people.'

    The Squire threw him a frowning look, but said nothing. Kenelm Lindale, lighting a cigarette, and carefully pressing the spent match into the ground, said: 'Well, I don't want to hurt Drybeck's feelings either, but, to tell you the truth, I don't really know much about this River Board.'

    'And you a riparian owner!' said Charles, shocked. 'There used to be one Catchment Board for the Rushy, here, and another one for the Crail, which for your better information is --'

    'All right!' said Kenelm, grinning at him. 'I know where the Crail runs! I also know that two old Catchment Boards have become one new River Board. What I meant was, what about the Crail half of the Board? Haven't they got a candidate for the solicitor's job?'

    'The man who used to look after their interests has retired,' said the Squire shortly. 'You'd better read the correspondence. I'll show it to you, if you like to -- No, now I come to think of it, I sent it on to you, Gavin. I wish you'd let me have it back.'

    He turned away, and began to talk to his hostess. Another game was soon arranged, he and Mrs Cliburn taking the places of Charles and Abigail, who went off with Gavin and Mrs Haswell to engage in a lighthearted game of Crazy Croquet, which Charles insisted was the only sort of croquet he understood.

    Tea was served under the elm tree on the lawn to the east of the house, the tennis-players joining the party when their respective sets ended, and hailing with acclaim the discovery that Mrs Haswell, always a perfect hostess, had provided iced coffee for their refreshment.

    Mrs Ainstable arrived at about half-past five, leaving her car in the drive, and walking through the rose-covered archway that led to the eastern lawn. Mrs Haswell rose at once, and went to meet her; and she said, in her rather high-pitched inconsequent voice: 'I do apologize! Don't say I'm too late to be given tea: I should burst into tears. Isn't it hot? How lovely the garden's looking! We've got greenfly.'

    'My dear, you don't look fit to be out!' said Mrs Haswell, taking her hand, and looking at her in a concerned way. 'Are you sure you're all right?'

    'Oh, yes! Just one of my wretched heads. Better now. Don't say anything about it: Bernard worries so about me!'

    This was seen to be true. The Squire had come up to them, and was anxiously scanning his wife's face. 'My dear, is this wise of you? I hoped you'd have a sleep.'

    'I did have a sleep, Bernard, and it did me so much good that I couldn't bear to stay away from Adelaide's party. Now, don't fuss, darling, please!'

    He shook his head, but said no more. Mrs Haswell could not think it wonderful that he should be worried. Rosamund Ainstable, though more than ten years his junior, was a woman who, without having any organic disease, had never enjoyed good health. Her constitution was delicate; any exertion out of the way was apt to prostrate her; and she was the victim of sick headaches whose cause had consistently baffled her many medical advisers. She had ceased to try to discover it, saying, with rueful laugh, that having worked her way expensively up Harley Street, she had neither the means nor the stamina to work her way down it. In the