“Hurry up there, Mr. Stonehouse.  Don’t keep the lady waiting.  Tea and puff, as ordered, ma’am.  No, ma’am, no tipping allowed in this establishment.  But anything left under the plate will be sent to the Society for the Cure of the Grouch among Superior Waiters.”

She jollied Christine, whose answering smile was like a little puzzled ghost.  She nourished a heavily scented handkerchief in the professional manner and grinned at Robert, whose open hostility did not so much as ruffle the fringe of her good humour.  In her raffish, rakish world poverty and wry, eccentric-tempered people abounded, and were just part of an enormous joke.  And Rufus Cosgrave, who gaped at her in wonder and admiration, saw that she was right.  Poor old Robert and exams, and beastly, bullying fathers and hard-upness—­the latter more especially—­were all supremely funny.

But Robert would not look at the jam-puff which she pushed across to him.

“Thanks.  I hate the beastly stuff.”

And yet it was a flaky thing, oozing, as Rufus had declared, with real raspberry jam.  And he was very young.  But he would not give way.  Could not.  It seemed trivial, and yet it was vital, too.  There was something in him which stood up straight and unbendable.  Once broken it could never be set up again.  And gradually a sense of loneliness crept over him.  He went and stood next Ricardo, who, like himself, would have no share in the festivity.  And the old man blinked up at him with a kind of triumph.

“And we’re going to a hill that I know of,” Francey was saying.  “No one else knows of it.  In fact, it’s only there when I am.  You go by train, and after that you have to walk.  I don’t know the way.  It comes by inspiration.  When you get to the top you can see the whole of England, and there are always flowers.  I’m taking Howard’s gang, and you people must come along too.  It’s what you want.  A good time——­”

“All the time,” said Miss Edwards, blowing away the crumbs.

“My people are going in a char-a-banc to Brighton,” Rufus said.  “But I’ll give them the slip.  There’s sure to be a beastly row anyhow.”

“That’s my brave boy!  Who cares for rows?  Take me.  Our Mr. Reilly’s had the nerve to fix up a rehearsal for the new French dame what’s coming to ginger up our show—­and, oh, believe me, it needs it—­but am I down-hearted?  No!  Anyway, if she’s half the stuff they say she is they’ll never notice poor little Connie’s gone to bury her fifth grandmother.  So I’ll be with you, lady, and kind regards and many thanks.”

“And you, too.  Miss Forsyth?”

Christine shook her head.  She was frowning up out of the open window a little anxiously.

“What would you do with a tired old woman?”

“Ruffles will carry you.  Throw out your chest, Ruffles, and look fierce.  What’s the use of a hefty brute like that if it isn’t useful?”