because she had travelled, but because instinct told her that a Club
with such a name and such a founder was bound to go far; if one didn't
join at once one might never have the chance. Its tent, with a text from
the Koran on an orange ground, and a small green camel embroidered over
the entrance, was the most striking on the ground. Outside it they
found Jack Cardigan in a dark blue tie (he had once played for Harrow),
batting with a Malacca cane to show how that fellow ought to have hit
that ball. He piloted them in. Assembled in Winifred's corner were
Imogen, Benedict with his young wife, Val Dartie without Holly, Maud and
her husband, and, after Soames and his two were seated, one empty place.

"I'm expecting Prosper," said Winifred, "but he's so busy with his
yacht."

Soames stole a glance. No movement in his wife's face! Whether that
fellow were coming or not, she evidently knew all about it. It did not
escape him that Fleur, too, looked at her mother. If Annette didn't
respect his feelings, she might think of Fleur's! The conversation, very
desultory, was syncopated by Jack Cardigan talking about "mid-off." He
cited all the "great mid-offs" from the beginning of time, as if they
had been a definite racial entity in the composition of the British
people. Soames had finished his lobster, and was beginning on
pigeon-pie, when he heard the words, "I'm a small bit late, Mrs.
Dartie," and saw that there was no longer any empty place. That fellow
was sitting between Annette and Imogen. Soames ate steadily on, with an
occasional word to Maud and Winifred. Conversation buzzed around him. He
heard the voice of Profond say:

"I think you're mistaken, Mrs. Forsyde; I'll--I'll bet Miss Forsyde
agrees with me."

"In what?" came Fleur's clear voice across the table.

"I was sayin', young gurls are much the same as they always
were--there's very small difference."

"Do you know so much about them?"

That sharp reply caught the ears of all, and Soames moved uneasily on
his thin green chair.

"Well, I don't know, I think they want their own small way, and I think
they always did."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, but--Prosper," Winifred interjected comfortably, "the girls in the
streets--the girls who've been in munitions, the little flappers in the
shops; their manners now really quite hit you in the eye."

At the word "hit" Jack Cardigan stopped his disquisition; and in the
silence Monsieur Profond said:

"It was inside before,