e
Red House, and Mark's preference--call it kindliness or vanity, as
you please--was for guests who were not in a position to repay his
hospitality. Let us have a look at them as they came down to that
breakfast, of which Stevens, the parlour-maid, has already given us a
glimpse.

The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired,
grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey flannel
trousers, who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural history
articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the side-table,
decided carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it. He had passed on
to a sausage by the time of the next arrival. This was Bill Beverly, a
cheerful young man in white flannel trousers and a blazer.

"Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"

"It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.

"Well, whatever it is."

The Major grunted.

"I make a point of being polite at breakfast," said Bill, helping
himself largely to porridge. "Most people are so rude. That's why I
asked you. But don't tell me if it's a secret. Coffee?" he added, as he
poured himself out a cup.

"No, thanks. I never drink till I've finished eating."

"Quite right, Major; it's only manners." He sat down opposite to the
other. "Well, we've got a good day for our game. It's going to be dashed
hot, but that's where Betty and I score. On the fifth green, your old
wound, the one you got in that frontier skirmish in '43, will begin to
trouble you; on the eighth, your liver, undermined by years of curry,
will drop to pieces; on the twelfth--"

"Oh, shut up, you ass!"

"Well, I'm only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris. I was
just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and him this
morning. Do you want any assistance, or do you prefer choosing your own
breakfast?"

"Please don't get up," said Miss Norris. "I'll help myself. Good
morning, Major." She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major nodded.

"Good morning. Going to be hot."

"As I was telling him," began Bill, "that's where--Hallo, here's Betty.
Morning, Cayley."

Betty Calladine and Cayley had come in together. Betty was the
eighteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. John Calladine, widow of the painter,
who was acting hostess on this occasion for Mark. Ruth Norris took
herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays, seriously as a
golfer. She was quite competent as either. Neither the Stage Society nor
Sandwich had any terro