desertion. She had promised to play tennis with him, and at the last
moment she had gone off with this fellow Pitt. Who _was_ Pitt? He
was always in the way--shoving himself in.

At this moment, a large, warm raindrop fell on his hand. From the
bushes all round came an ever-increasing patter. The sky was leaden.

He looked round him for shelter. He had reached the rose garden in the
course of his perambulations. At the far end was a summerhouse. He
turned up his coat collar and ran.

As he drew near, he heard a slow and dirgelike whistling proceeding
from the interior. Plunging in out of breath, just as the deluge
began, he found Spennie seated at the little wooden table with an
earnest expression on his face. The table was covered with cards.

"How Jim took exercise," said Spennie, glancing up. "Hello, Wesson. By
Jove, isn't it coming down!"

With which greeting he turned his attention to his cards once more. He
took one from the pack in his left hand, looked at it, hesitated for a
moment, as if doubtful whereabouts on the table it would produce the
most artistic effect; and finally put it down, face upward.

Then he moved another card from the table, and put it on top of the
other one. Throughout the performance he whistled painfully.

Wesson regarded him with disfavor. "That looks damned exciting," he
said. He reserved his more polished periods for use in public. "What
are you playing at?"