"Well,—I have often wanted you two to meet."
She said something about it's being a fait accompli, and asked Pentreath to ring the bell. They had tea and Pentreath tried to talk of the old Trinity days, and became self-consciously inept, while Perdita held to her young episcopal throne. Afterwards there was the garden, and golf croquet.
"You still play golf croquet?"
"We do. My wife says that it economizes small talk."
"Remember Molly? By the way,—what is Molly?"
Pentreath had the toe of his boot on the red ball.
He appeared to look anxiously over his shoulder to assure himself that Perdita was still upon her throne.
"My surgery hours—half-past six. Girl coming in then. You might"
"I'll stroll in casually—if you show me.Shall I begin? Right. And what about Molly?"
Pentreath crooked his long finger over his mallet, and played his ball on to the wrong side of the first hoop.
"O—Molly Haven't you heard? Selling Paris models, and writing novels. Haven't you read 'Broken Pottery'?"
"Novels are not much in my line."
"'Broken Pottery' sold thirteen thousand. Horribly clever.—Perdita."
He glanced again towards the window.
"Your shot. Perdita refuses to have Molly's books in the house. Don't gee. Perdita's rather old-fashioned."
"Molly used to be rather a fierce young person."
"O, too much so, too much so. Is still. She has been here just once. A pity"
He potted at a hoop and missed it.
"Dear me! Having things on your mind"
He looked at his watch.
When Mr. Christopher Sorrell strolled into Pentreath's surgery, smoking a pipe and appearing as the most casual of intruders, he surprised the group by the window, Pentreath, Maggs the chauffeur, and Maggs's girl. Pentreath was seated, unrolling a light bandage, the girl standing in front of him, a pale and strumous child with a bulging forehead and weak blue eyes. The chauffeur stood by the win-
