e Tribes, and she had also sent Vanessa,
of whom he had grown very fond, to represent her. "If people will keep a
lot of fat chauffeurs who must be occupied," she said, "I don't see why
I should be compelled to bore myself for hours at a time on that
account." However, they were all returning to "The Fastness" to tea that
afternoon.

So she reclined on her _chaise-longue_ in one of the shady corners of
her garden behind the lawn, reading the latest of Richard Latimer's
novels, and there very soon Cleopatra joined her. Between them stood an
occasional table, and upon it were tumblers, a few bottles of ale, and a
glass jug containing still lemonade.

A moment before Agatha had had five minutes' private conversation with
Mrs. Delarayne, and the latter was looking a trifle serious when her
daughter joined her.

"Cleo, my dear," she began, "you look tired,--been overdoing it?"

"I have a headache," Cleopatra retorted impatiently.

No more than Agatha was Mrs. Delarayne likely to be satisfied with this
reply. She saw now that Agatha had been right, and blamed herself for
her blindness hitherto.

"I don't like you to be so interested in that silly needlework," she
added. "You are not yourself, or you would not work so ridiculously
fast."

Cleopatra said nothing.

"Cleo, do you hear me?" she cried. "I'm speaking to you. Look up?--Why
are you so silent?"

"Oh, Edith, for Heaven's sake!" exclaimed the distracted girl. "I don't
think I could have slept well last night--that's all."

"Why aren't you Denis's partner at tennis?"

"For the simple reason," Cleopatra replied, with a self-revelatory glare
in her eyes, "that Baby is!"

Mrs. Delarayne turned to her novel for a moment. "Who's Agatha playing
with?" she enquired at last.

"With Guy of course."

"And where's Stephen?"

"Oh, he's somewhere. I believe he's cleaning his motor-cycle."

At this point Guy's voice was heard from the lawn:

"We're thirty and Leonetta and Denis are love!"

Cleopatra made a violent movement with her foot, and accidently kicked
the table so that all the tumblers rang in unison.

"Oh, Cleo, my dear!--do be careful!" the widow exclaimed. "What have you
done?"

"It's nothing, Edith--nothing."

"Forty--love," cried Guy Tyrrell.

"The terminology of tennis is at times a little tiresome," thought Mrs.
Delarayne.

"You must play in the next game," she said, regarding her daughter a
little anxiously.

"Oh, I'm sick of tennis," C