croft. The straggling lawn was neatly trimmed, the raffish privet hedge was clipped, on the small grass plot were several wicker chairs with brightly colored sailcloth cushions. A line of lush-green weeping willows formed a background for the weather-mellowed, ivy-covered house with its many gables, mullioned windows and projecting bays. As we chugged and wheezed between the tall posts of the gateless entranceway a young woman quit a gayly-colored canvas hammock and walked toward us, waving cheerful greeting.
"Don't say anything about what happened on the train, please," begged Pemberton as he brought the coughing motor to a halt.
Though definitely brunette, Avis Pemberton was just as definitely British. She had wide-spaced, slightly slanting hazel eyes, straight, dark hair smoothly parted in the middle and drawn low across her ears, a broad, white forehead, a small, straight nose set above a full-lipped, rather wide and humorous mouth, and a small and pointed chin marked with the faint suspicion of a cleft. When she smiled, two dimples showed low in her cheeks, making a merrily incongruous combination with her exotic eyes. She was dressed in a twin sweater combination, a kilted skirt of Harris tweed, Shetland socks and a pair of Scotch grain brogues which, clumsy as they were, could not disguise the slimness of her feet. Every line of her was long, fine-cut, and British as a breath of lavender.
"Hullo-hullo, old thing," her husband greeted. "Anything untoward occur while the good old bread-winner was off?"
"Nothing, lord and master," she answered smilingly as she acknowledged his quick introductions, but her hazel eyes were wide and thoughtful as the little Frenchman raised her fingers to his lips at presentation, and I thought I saw her cast a frightened glance across her shoulder as her husband turned to help us drag our duffle from the car.
Dinner was a rite at Foxcroft, as dinner always is with Britons. A flat bouquet of roses graced the table, four tall candles flickered in tall silver standards; the soup was cool and underseasoned, the joint of mutton tough and underdone, the burgundy a little sour, the apple tart a sadly soggy thing which might have made a billy-goat have nightmares. But Pemberton looked spick and span in dinner clothes and his wife was a misty vision in rose lace. Appleby, the "batman" who served Pemberton as servant through three army terms and quit the service to accompany him in civil life, served the meal with faultless technique, and brought us something he called coffee when the meal was over and we congregated on the lawn beneath a spreading poplar tree. De Grandin's air of gloom grew deeper by the minute. When the servant tendered him a Sevres cup filled with the off-brown, faintly steaming mixture, I thought he would assault him. Instead, he managed something like a smile as he turned to our hostess.
"I have heard Monsieur Pemberton speak of your son, Madame; is he with you in America?" he asked.
"Oh, dear, no; he's with my father at Lerwick-on-Tyne. You see, we didn't know just what conditions here might be, and thought that he'd be safer at the vicarage."
"Your father is a churchman, then?"
"Very much so. It was not till after we had Little Jim that he managed to forgive me; even now I'm not quite sure that he regards me as a proper person to have custody of a small boy."
"Madame, I am confused. How is it you say"
The girl laughed merrily. "Father's
