“It’s a difficult question,” said Cicely, “whether one should stay at home and face the music or go away and live a transplanted life under the British flag.  Either attitude might be dictated by patriotism.”

“It is one thing to face the music, it is another thing to dance to it,” said Yeovil.

Cicely poured out some more coffee for herself and changed the conversation.

“You’ll be in to lunch, I suppose?  The Clubs are not very attractive just now, I believe, and the restaurants are mostly hot in the middle of the day.  Ronnie Storre is coming in; he’s here pretty often these days.  A rather good-looking young animal with something mid-way between talent and genius in the piano-playing line.”

“Not long-haired and Semetic or Tcheque or anything of that sort, I suppose?” asked Yeovil.

Cicely laughed at the vision of Ronnie conjured up by her husband’s words.

“No, beautifully groomed and clipped and Anglo-Saxon.  I expect you’ll like him.  He plays bridge almost as well as he plays the piano.  I suppose you wonder at any one who can play bridge well wanting to play the piano.”

“I’m not quite so intolerant as all that,” said Yeovil; “anyhow I promise to like Ronnie.  Is any one else coming to lunch?”

“Joan Mardle will probably drop in, in fact I’m afraid she’s a certainty.  She invited herself in that way of hers that brooks of no refusal.  On the other hand, as a mitigating circumstance, there will be a point d’asperge omelette such as few kitchens could turn out, so don’t be late.”

Yeovil set out for his morning walk with the curious sensation of one who starts on a voyage of discovery in a land that is well known to him.  He turned into the Park at Hyde Park corner and made his way along the familiar paths and alleys that bordered the Row.  The familiarity vanished when he left the region of fenced-in lawns and rhododendron bushes and came to the open space that stretched away beyond the bandstand.  The bandstand was still there, and a military band, in sky-blue Saxon uniform, was executing the first item in the forenoon programme of music.  Around it, instead of the serried rows of green chairs that Yeovil remembered, was spread out an acre or so of small round tables, most of which had their quota of customers, engaged in a steady consumption of lager beer, coffee, lemonade and syrups.  Further in the background, but well within earshot of the band, a gaily painted pagoda-restaurant sheltered a number of more commodious tables under its awnings, and gave a hint of convenient indoor accommodation for wet or windy weather.  Movable screens of trellis-trained foliage and climbing roses formed little hedges by means of which any particular table could be shut off from its neighbours if semi-privacy were desired.  One or two decorative advertisements of popularised brands of champagne and Rhine wines adorned the outside walls of the building, and under