ross; "see what he
says."

Jack was one of our oldest friends; he went to school with Gerald, and
they were then both at Oxford together. He had always spent his holidays
with us as he had no mother, and his father, who was a most brilliant
scholar, lived in India, engaged in research work; but this vac. Mr.
Marriott was in England, and Jack and he were coming to stay with us the
following day.

[Illustration: GERALD LOOKED PUZZLED.]

Gerald read the letter through twice, and then looked puzzled.

"Which day were they invited for, Margaret?" he asked.

"To-morrow, of course, the 13th."

"Well, they're coming this evening by the 7.2."

I looked over his shoulder; it _was_ the 12th undoubtedly. "And mother
and father aren't coming till the 9.30," I sighed; "I wish they were
going to be here in time for dinner to entertain Mr. Marriott; he's sure
to be eccentric--clever people always are."

"Yes," agreed Gerald, "he'll talk miles above our heads; but never mind,
there'll be old Jack."

Cook and I next discussed the menu. I rather thought curry should figure
in it, as Mr. Marriott came from India; but cook overruled me, saying it
was "such nasty hot stuff for this weather, and English curry wouldn't
be like Indian curry either."

When everything was in readiness for our guests Gerald and I went to
the Prescotts', who were giving the tournament.

We had some splendid games, and Gerald was still playing in an exciting
match when I found that the Marriotts' train was nearly due. Of course
he couldn't leave off, so I said that I would meet them and take them
home; we only lived about a quarter of a mile from the station, and
generally walked.

I couldn't find my racquet for some time, and consequently had a race
with the train, which luckily ended in a dead heat, for I reached the
platform just as it steamed in.

The few passengers quickly dispersed, but there was no sign of Jack; a
tall, elderly man, wrapped in a thick overcoat, in spite of the hot
evening, stood forlornly alone. I was just wondering if he could be
Jack's father when he came up to me and said, "Are you Margaret?"

"Yes," I answered.

"I have often heard my boy speak of you," he said, looking extremely
miserable.

[Sidenote: Jack does not Come]

"But isn't he coming?" I cried.

He replied "No" in such a hopeless voice and sighed so heavily that I
was beginning to feel positively depressed, when he changed the subject
by informing me tha