ith that absorbed inward look that only comes
from whipped cream.

"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I
want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such
awfully nice men."

But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans.

Something had happened.

"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand
clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was
screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be
enjoying himself; it was his story.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed."

"A man killed! Where? How? When?"

But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his
very nose.

"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of
course, she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of
Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke
Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head.
Killed."

"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.

"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They
were taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook,
"He's left a wife and five little ones."

"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged
her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There
she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however
are we going to stop everything?"

"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you
mean?"

"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?

But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura,
don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody
expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."

"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside
the front gate."

That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to
themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house.
A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were
the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that
neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a
chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage
stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their
chimn