Yeovil found Cicely and breakfast waiting for him in the cool breakfast-room, and enjoyed, with the appreciation of a recent invalid, the comfort and resources of a meal that had not to be ordered or thought about in advance, but seemed as though it were there, fore-ordained from the beginning of time in its smallest detail.  Each desire of the breakfasting mind seemed to have its realisation in some dish, lurking unobtrusively in hidden corners until asked for.  Did one want grilled mushrooms, English fashion, they were there, black and moist and sizzling, and extremely edible; did one desire mushrooms a la Russe, they appeared, blanched and cool and toothsome under their white blanketing of sauce.  At one’s bidding was a service of coffee, prepared with rather more forethought and circumspection than would go to the preparation of a revolution in a South American Republic.

The exotic blooms that reigned in profusion over the other parts of the house were scrupulously banished from the breakfast-room; bowls of wild thyme and other flowering weeds of the meadow and hedgerow gave it an atmosphere of country freshness that was in keeping with the morning meal.

“You look dreadfully tired still,” said Cicely critically, “otherwise I would recommend a ride in the Park, before it gets too hot.  There is a new cob in the stable that you will just love, but he is rather lively, and you had better content yourself for the present with some more sedate exercise than he is likely to give you.  He is apt to try and jump out of his skin when the flies tease him.  The Park is rather jolly for a walk just now.”

“I think that will be about my form after my long journey,” said Yeovil, “an hour’s stroll before lunch under the trees.  That ought not to fatigue me unduly.  In the afternoon I’ll look up one or two people.”

“Don’t count on finding too many of your old set,” said Cicely rather hurriedly.  “I dare say some of them will find their way back some time, but at present there’s been rather an exodus.”

“The Bredes,” said Yeovil, “are they here?”

“No, the Bredes are in Scotland, at their place in Sutherlandshire; they don’t come south now, and the Ricardes are farming somewhere in East Africa, the whole lot of them.  Valham has got an appointment of some sort in the Straits Settlement, and has taken his family with him.  The Collards are down at their mother’s place in Norfolk; a German banker has bought their house in Manchester Square.”

“And the Hebways?” asked Yeovil.

“Dick Hebway is in India,” said Cicely, “but his mother lives in Paris; poor Hugo, you know, was killed in the war.  My friends the Allinsons are in Paris too.  It’s rather a clearance, isn’t it?  However, there are some left, and I expect others will come back in time.  Pitherby is here; he’s one of those who are trying to make the best of things under the new regime.”

“He would be,” said Yeovil, shortly.