“No,” said Cruttendon decidedly.  “Can’t be done.”

He took the canvas off the chair and stood it on the floor with its back to them.

“Sit down, ladies and gentlemen.  Miss Carslake comes from your part of the world, Flanders.  From Devonshire.  Oh, I thought you said Devonshire.  Very well.  She’s a daughter of the church too.  The black sheep of the family.  Her mother writes her such letters.  I say—­have you one about you?  It’s generally Sundays they come.  Sort of church-bell effect, you know.”

“Have you met all the painter men?” said Jinny.  “Was Mallinson drunk?  If you go to his studio he’ll give you one of his pictures.  I say, Teddy ...”

“Half a jiff,” said Cruttendon.  “What’s the season of the year?” He looked out of the window.

“We take a day off on Sundays, Flanders.”

“Will he ...” said Jinny, looking at Jacob.  “You ...”

“Yes, he’ll come with us,” said Cruttendon.

And then, here is Versailles.  Jinny stood on the stone rim and leant over the pond, clasped by Cruttendon’s arms or she would have fallen in.  “There!  There!” she cried.  “Right up to the top!” Some sluggish, sloping-shouldered fish had floated up from the depths to nip her crumbs.  “You look,” she said, jumping down.  And then the dazzling white water, rough and throttled, shot up into the air.  The fountain spread itself.  Through it came the sound of military music far away.  All the water was puckered with drops.  A blue air-ball gently bumped the surface.  How all the nurses and children and old men and young crowded to the edge, leant over and waved their sticks!  The little girl ran stretching her arms towards her air-ball, but it sank beneath the fountain.

Edward Cruttendon, Jinny Carslake, and Jacob Flanders walked in a row along the yellow gravel path; got on to the grass; so passed under the trees; and came out at the summer-house where Marie Antoinette used to drink chocolate.  In went Edward and Jinny, but Jacob waited outside, sitting on the handle of his walking-stick.  Out they came again.

“Well?” said Cruttendon, smiling at Jacob.

Jinny waited; Edward waited; and both looked at Jacob.

“Well?” said Jacob, smiling and pressing both hands on his stick.

“Come along,” he decided; and started off.  The others followed him, smiling.

And then they went to the little cafe in the by-street where people sit drinking coffee, watching the soldiers, meditatively knocking ashes into trays.

“But he’s quite different,” said Jinny, folding her hands over the top of her glass.  “I don’t suppose you know what Ted means when he says a thing like that,” she said, looking at Jacob.  “But I do.  Sometimes I could kill myself.  Sometimes he lies in bed all day long—­just lies there. ...  I don’t want you right on the table”; she waved her hands.  Swollen iridescent pigeons were waddling round their feet.