a deck chair, one leg thrown over the other, Rowsley dropped at
full length on the turf, and Isabel doubled herself up between
them, her arms clasped round her knees. "How's the Old Man?" she
asked in friendly reference to Rowsley's commanding officer.
"Oh Rose, I knew there was something I wanted to ask you. Will
Spillsby be able to play on the Fourth?" Spillsby, a brother
subaltern and a famous bat, had twisted his ankle at the nets,
and Rowsley in his last letter had been uncertain whether he
would be well enough to play the Sappers at the annual fixture.

Happily Rowsley was able to reassure his young sister: the ankle
was much better and Spillsby was already allowed to walk on it.
Isabel then turned her large velvet eyes--gazelle eyes with a
world of pathos in their velvet gloom on her elder brother.
"Coruscate, Val," she commanded. "You haven't said anything at
all yet. We should all try to be bright in the home circle. We
cannot all be witty, but-Ow! Rowsley, if you pull my hair I
shall hit you in the--in the place where the Gauls fined their
soldiers if they stuck out on parade. Oh, Val, that really isn't
vulgar, I found it in Matthew Arnold! Their stomachs, you know.
They wouldn't have fined you anyhow. You look fagged, darling--
are you?"

"Not so much fagged as hungry," said Val in his soft voice. "It's
getting on for nine o'clock and I was done out of my tea. I went
in to Wanhope, but Laura was out, and Clowes was drinking whisky
and soda. I cannot stand whisky at four in the afternoon, and
Irish whisky at that. There'll be some supper going before long,
won't there?"