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incongruously assorted party shook down together. That is to say Eric and Armorel were continually arranging new forms of sport, aided by John Hillyard, and trying to induce the rest of us to take part in them. De Ravel played a good deal of tennis with them, but only when his wife was free to sit by the court and watch (Mrs de Ravel disliked sport in all its forms, and took no part in the Scott-Davies’ activities), and so did Miss Verity, though she was naturally not such a good player as the others. I joined in one or two sets at first, just for the appearance of the thing, but I am an indifferent performer at the best of times; and when I discovered that Scott-Davies was trying to make a butt of me I firmly refused to touch a racket again. A man owes it to himself to draw the line somewhere.
    Minton Deeps is within a few miles of the coast, and in spite of the fact that it has a swimming pool in the stream at the bottom of the valley, bathing parties to the sea were organized. Personally I did not go on them. I am not a strong swimmer, and sea bathing has never appealed to me. Nor do I play golf. Here I had thought that Miss Verity and I had a common bond, for she did not play either, whereas Eric was what they call a plus-man. With diabolical ingenuity, however, Eric persuaded Miss Verity to let him teach her the game, and on this plea succeeded in carrying her off on two occasions to the neighbouring links for the whole day in spite of all my attempts to prevent it. Nevertheless on the whole I was not ill-pleased with the results of these days. Several times Miss Verity came out for walks with me (I rather suspected that Ethel had a hand in this), and once I was able to carry her off right under Eric’s nose. His remarks as I lifted my hat in mocking farewell were a pattern of what a gentleman’s should not be.
    Such was our life on the surface during those days. Beneath that surface who can say what cross-currents were gradually gaining strength to sweep the party on to its final catastrophe? Inevitably most of the intrigue was hidden from an onlooker such as myself, but nobody but her husband could have failed to notice the immense efforts Mrs de Ravel was making to deal with her erring swain. She treated poor little bewildered Elsa Verity with a contemptuous and lazy rudeness which at times quite took my breath away. If Eric had had a spark of affection for the girl he would have hotly resented it aloud and condemned the consequences; as it was he merely grinned. I began to dislike the fellow more and more, if that were possible. What passed between the two of them in private no else can say; but one thing was quite certain: Eric’s pursuit of Miss Verity showed no diminution. It seemed as if Ethel’s ingenious plan was to fail after all. I was more sorry than I can say, for our walks together, and the trustful, pleased way in which she received my attentions and my conversation were beginning to endear the girl herself to me altogether apart from her money.
    It was on the evening of the occasion when I had carried her off from under Eric Scott-Davies’ nose that a most unpleasant incident occurred. To my surprise, after dinner Scott-Davies linked his arm through mine in the most familiar way immediately after we had had coffee, which was served that night in the garden in front of the house, and said in his boisterous voice: ‘Come for a stroll, Pinkie, old boy. I want you to tell me all about your wicked little stamp collection, the bits you didn’t let on about this afternoon, what?’
    This was an allusion to my hobby of philately, a subject on which I had discoursed for a time to Miss Verity during our walk that afternoon and to which she had made a somewhat unfortunate allusion at dinner. Eric had professed to find food for considerable amusement in so ordinary a matter, and though Elsa had been forced in mere politeness to smile at his absurd gibes I could see how she blamed herself for being the