“If no one will have any more tea,” said Isabel, jumping up and shaking the crumbs out of her lap, “will you all come and eat strawberries?”

“Isn’t Val coming in?” asked Laura.

“Not till after five.  He said we weren’t to wait for him:  he was delayed in getting off.  He sent his love to you, Laura, and he was very sorry.”

“His love!” said Yvonne Bendish.

“My dear Isabel, I’m sure he didn’t,” said Laura laughing.

“Kind regards then,” said Isabel:  “not that it signifies, because we all do love you, darling.  Val’s always telling me that if I want to be a lady when I grow up I must model my manners on yours.  Not yours, Yvonne.”

“After that the least I can do is to wait and give him his tea when he does appear,” said Laura.  “It’s very hot among the strawberry beds, and I’m a little tired:  and I haven’t seen Val for days.”

“No more have I,” said Yvonne in her odd drawl, “and I’m tired too.”  Mrs. Jack Bendish was made of whipcord:  she had been brought up to ride Irish horses over Irish fences and to dance all night, after tramping the moors all day with a gun.  “I’ll stay with you and rest.  Jack, you run on.  Bring me some big ones in a cabbage leaf.  And, Captain Hyde, you’ll find them excellent with bread and butter.”  By which Lawrence perceived that his interest in the other camp had not gone unobserved, and that was the worst of Yvonne:  but—­and that was the best of Yvonne:  there was no tinge of spite in her jeering eyes.

So the sisters remained on the lawn, and Jack Bendish, a perfectly simple young man, walked off with Rowsley to pick a cabbage leaf.  Isabel was demureness itself as she followed with Captain Hyde.  The embroidered muslin gave her courage, more courage perhaps than if she could have heard his frank opinion of it.  “The trailing skirt of the young girl,” said Miss Stafford to herself, “made a gentle frou-frou as she swept over the velvet lawn.”  A quoi revent les junes filles?  Very innocent was the vanity of Isabel’s dreams.  She was not strictly pretty, but she was young and fresh, and the spotless muslin fell in graceful folds round her tall, lissome figure.  To the jaded man of the world at her side . . . .  Alas for Isabel!  The jaded man of the world was a trifle bored:  he was easily bored.  He liked listening to Miss Stafford’s artless merriment but he had no desire to share in it; what had he to say to a promoted schoolgirl in her Sunday best?

He began politely making conversation.  “What a pretty place this is!” It seemed wiser not to refer even by way of apology to the indiscretion of the morning.  “You have a beautiful view over the Plain.  Rather dreary in winter though, isn’t it?”

“I like it best then,” said Isabel briefly.  “Don’t you want any strawberries?” She indicated the netted furrows among which little could be seen of Rowsley and Jack Bendish except their stern ends.