Truxton Kings, he might have been found on the broad lawn late one
afternoon, playing tennis with his hostess, the lovely and vivacious
"Aunt Loraine." To him, Mrs. King would always be "Aunt Loraine,"
even as he would never be anything but Bobby to her.

She was several years under forty and as light and active as a young
girl. Her smooth cheek glowed with the happiness and thrill of the
sport, and he was hard put to hold his own against her, even though
she insisted that he play his level best.

Truxton King, stalwart and lazy, lounged on the turf, umpiring the
game, attended by two pretty young girls, a lieutenant in flannels
and the ceremonious Count Quinnox, iron grey and gaunt-faced
battleman with the sabre scars on his cheek and the bullet wound in
his side.

"Good work, Rainie," shouted the umpire as his wife safely placed the
ball far out of her opponent's reach.

"Hi!" shouted Robin, turning on him with a scowl. "You're not
supposed to cheer anybody, d' you understand? You're only an umpire."

"Outburst of excitement, Kid," apologised the umpire complacently.
"Couldn't help it. Forty thirty. Get busy."

"He called him 'kid,'" whispered one of the young girls to the other.

"Well I heard the Prince call Mr. King 'Truck' a little while ago,"
whispered the other.