painter, who was acting hostess on this occasion for Mark. Ruth
Norris took herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays,
seriously as a golfer. She was quite competent as either.
Neither the Stage Society nor Sandwich had any terrors for her.

"By the way, the car will be round at 10.30," said Cayley,
looking up from his letters. "You're lunching there, and driving
back directly afterwards. Isn't that right?"

"I don't see why we shouldn't have--two rounds," said Bill
hopefully.

"Much too hot in the afternoon," said the Major. "Get back
comfortably for tea."

Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and
sat down to toast and tea. Breakfast was not his meal. The
others chattered gently while he read his letters.

"Good God!" said Mark suddenly.

There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. "I beg
your pardon, Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty."

Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it
herself, particularly at rehearsals.

"I say, Cay!" He was frowning to himself--annoyed, puzzled. He
held up a letter and shook it. "Who do you think this is from?"