dates on the fingers proving unsatisfactory. She opened and shut every
drawer in her writing-table, and then cried furiously, "Yarmouth!
Yarmouth! Drat the woman! She's always out of the way when she's
wanted!"

At this moment the luncheon gong began to work itself into its midday
frenzy. Mrs. Flushing rang her bell violently. The door was opened by a
handsome maid who was almost as upright as her mistress.

"Oh, Yarmouth," said Mrs. Flushing, "just find my diary and see where
ten days from now would bring us to, and ask the hall porter how many
men 'ud be wanted to row eight people up the river for a week, and
what it 'ud cost, and put it on a slip of paper and leave it on my
dressing-table. Now--" she pointed at the door with a superb forefinger
so that Rachel had to lead the way.

"Oh, and Yarmouth," Mrs. Flushing called back over her shoulder. "Put
those things away and hang 'em in their right places, there's a good
girl, or it fusses Mr. Flushin'."

To all of which Yarmouth merely replied, "Yes, ma'am."

As they entered the long dining-room it was obvious that the day was
still Sunday, although the mood was slightly abating. The Flushings'
table was set by the side in the window, so that Mrs. Flushing could
scrutinise each figure as it entered, and her curiosity seemed to be
intense.

"Old Mrs. Paley," she whispered as the wheeled chair slowly made its way
through the door, Arthur pushing behind. "Thornburys" came next. "That