the fence in a shower. There was
a little pit of darkness beneath.

"No, really, I don't want to," said Beryl.

For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he came close to her,
turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't be
silly!"

His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? That
bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she
doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate
pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched
her to him.

"Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the hateful voice.

But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free.

"You are vile, vile," said she.

"Then why in God's name did you come?" stammered Harry Kember.

Nobody answered him.

Chapter 1.XIII.

A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of
darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away,
and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a
dark dream. All was still.

2. THE GARDEN PARTY.

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more
perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm,
the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light
gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since
dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark
flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for
the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are
the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers
that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds,
had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though
they had been visited by archangels.

Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.

"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"

"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave
everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me
as an honoured guest."

But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed
her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green
turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the butterfly,
always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.

"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the artistic one."

Away Laura flew, still