“Mrs. Carter,” said a woman in bright yellow, coming up to them suddenly, “will you be a darling and come and talk to my French officer?  The girls have all been practising their Berlitz on him, and he’s almost losing his mind!  Dick,” added this matron, who had linked her arm about Harriet’s waist, “for heaven’s sake go clean up!  Can’t you find time to talk to your wife at home?  I’ve been watching you for five minutes, getting my arms burned simply black—­will you come, Mrs. Carter?  That’s the poor soul, over there with Sarah.  I don’t know why I’ve had a French governess for that girl for seven years!”

“To save the life of a fellow creature—­” Harriet said in her liquid French.  She went off, laughingly, in the other woman’s custody; Richard looked after them a moment.

He saw them join the group of smiling girls and the harassed Frenchman; saw the alien’s face brighten as Harriet was introduced.  A moment later a boy with a tennis racket dashed up to them, and there was a scattering in the direction of the courts.  The girls surrounded the boy, and streamed away chattering.  The matron in yellow came back to her card table.  And Harriet, unfurling her parasol, deep in conversation with the captured soldier, sauntered slowly after the tennis players.  The afternoon sunshine sent clean shadows across the clipped grass; the stretched blue silk of Harriet’s parasol threw a mellow orange light upon her tawny hair and saffron-coloured gown.

Richard had a child’s desperate wish that he was dressed, and might run after them.

“They are playing the semi-finals,” he said to himself, hurrying through his change of garments.  “I wish to the Lord I had gotten through in time to get down there!”

But it was not at the tennis that he looked, twenty minutes later, when he reached the courts; although a brilliant play was being made, and there was a spattering of applause.  His eyes instantly found Harriet’s figure; she was still talking to the Frenchman, whose olive face was glowing with interest and admiration, and not more than eight inches, Richard thought, from her own.  Harriet’s own face wore the shadow of a smile, her lashes were dropped, and she was gently pushing the point of her closed parasol into the green turf.  The chairs in which they sat had been slightly turned from the court.

Richard engaged himself in conversation with two or three men and women who were watching the youngsters’ game, and presently found himself applauding his son for a brilliant ace.  But after perhaps five minutes he walked quite without volition, straight to Harriet’s neighbourhood, and she rose at once, introduced her new friend, and with a glance at her wrist, announced that she must go.

“Ward said he would drive me home the instant it was over,” said Harriet, clapping heartily for the triumphant finish of the set.

“I’ll drive you home!” Richard said, instantly.  “I’ve the small car.”