pat on the back, and stepped firmly across to the box of bowls, whistling loudly to himself. He took the bowls out, dropped one with a loud bang on the floor, said, "Oh, Lord!" and went on:
"I say, Bill, I don't think I want to play bowls, after all."
"Well, why did you say you did?" grumbled Bill.
Antony flashed a smile of appreciation at him.
"Well, I wanted to when I said I did, and now I don't want to."
"Then what do you want to do?"
"Talk."
"Oh, right-o!" said Bill eagerly.
"There's a seat on the lawn—I saw it. Let's bring these things along in case we want to play, after all."
"Right-o!" said Bill again. He felt safe with that, not wishing to commit himself until he knew what he was wanted to say.
As they went across the lawn, Antony dropped the bowls and took out his pipe.
"Got a match?" he said loudly.
As he bent his head over the match, he whispered, "There'll be somebody listening to us. You take the Cayley view," and then went on in his ordinary voice, "I don't think much of your matches, Bill," and struck another. They walked over to the seat and sat down.
"What a heavenly night!" said Antony.
"Ripping."
