's illness in his life. He went right through the war
without a finger-ache. You really can't imagine how fit he is!" Indeed,
he was so "fit" that he couldn't see when she was flirting, which was
such a comfort in a way. All the same she was quite fond of him, so far
as one could be of a sports-machine, and of the two little Cardigans
made after his pattern. Her eyes just then were comparing him
maliciously with Prosper Profond. There was no "small" sport or game
which Monsieur Profond had not played at too, it seemed, from skittles
to harpon-fishing, and worn out every one. Imogen would sometimes wish
that they had worn out Jack, who continued to play at them and talk of
them with the simple zeal of a schoolgirl learning hockey; at the age
of Great-uncle Timothy she well knew that Jack would be playing carpet
golf in her bedroom, and "wiping somebody's eye."

He was telling them now how he had "pipped the pro--a charmin' fellow,
playin' a very good game," at the last hole this morning; and how he
had pulled down to Caversham since lunch, and trying to incite Prosper
Profond to play him a set of tennis after tea--do him good--"keep him
fit."

"But what's the use of keepin' fit?" said Monsieur Profond.

"Yes, sir," murmured Michael Mont, "what do you keep fit for?"

"Jack," cried Imogen, enchanted, "what do you keep fit for?"

Jack Cardigan stared with all his health. The questions were like the
buzz of a mosquito, and he put up his hand to wipe them away. During
the War, of course, he had kept fit to kill Germans; now that it was
over he either did not know, or shrank in delicacy from explanation of
his moving principle.

"But he's right," said Monsieur Profond unexpectedly, "there's nothin'
left but keepin' fit."

The saying, too deep for Sunday afternoon, would have passed
unanswered, but for the mercurial nature of young Mont.

"Good!" he cried. "That's the great discovery of the war. We all
thought we were progressing--now we know we're only changing."

"For the worse," said Monsieur Profond genially.

"How you are cheerful, Prosper!" murmured Annette.

"You come and play tennis!" said Jack Cardigan; "you've got the hump.
We'll soon take that down. D'you play, Mr. Mont?"

"I hit the ball about, sir."

At this juncture Soames rose, ruffled in that deep instinct of
preparation for the future which guided his existence.

"When Fleur comes--" he heard Jack Cardigan say.

Ah! and why didn't she come? He