up and went through the french windows into the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the quiet.
“I think it’s up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.”
A tragic moan from Moira.
“We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The Maid of the Mountains.’”
“Oh no! Oh no!” cried Isabel’s voice. “That’s not fair to William. Be nice to him, my children! He’s only staying until tomorrow evening.”
“Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good at looking after people.”
The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had seen him. “Hallo, William!” And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. “Pity you didn’t come, William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and had sloe gin.”
The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, “would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?”
“No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. We’re all starving. William’s starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let’s begin with sardines.”
“I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and
177
