All that day we grilled in the heat.  Myra and I started a game of croquet in the morning, but after one shot each we agreed to abandon it as a draw—­slightly in my favour, because I had given her the chipped mallet.  And in the afternoon, Thomas and Simpson made a great effort to get up enthusiasm for lawn-tennis.  Each of them returned the other’s service into the net until the score stood at eight all, at which point they suddenly realized that nothing but the violent death of one of the competitors would ever end the match.  They went on to ten all to make sure, and then retired to the lemonade and wasp jug, Simpson missing a couple of dead bodies by inches only.  And after dinner it was hotter than ever.

“The heat in my room,” announced Archie, “breaks all records.  The thermometer says a hundred and fifty, the barometer says very dry, we’ve had twenty-five hours’ sunshine, and there’s not a drop of rain recorded in the soap-dish.  Are we going to take this lying down?”

“No,” said Thomas, “let’s sleep out to-night.”

“What do you say, Dahlia?”

“It’s a good idea.  You can all sleep on the croquet lawn, and Myra and I will take the tennis lawn.”

“Hadn’t you better have the croquet lawn?  Thomas walks in his sleep, and we don’t want to have him going through hoops all night.”

“You’ll have to bring down your own mattresses,” went on Dahlia, “and you’ve not got to walk about the garden in the early morning, at least not until Myra and I are up, and if you’re going to fall over croquet hoops you mustn’t make a noise.  That’s all the rules, I think.”

“I’m glad we’ve got the tennis lawn,” said Myra; “it’s much smoother.  Do you prefer the right-hand court, dear, or the left-hand?”

“We shall be very close to Nature to-night,” said Archie.  “Now we shall know whether it really is the nightjar, or Simpson gargling.”

We were very close to Nature that night, but in the early morning still closer.  I was awakened by the noise of Simpson talking, as I hoped, in his sleep.  However, it appeared that he was awake and quite conscious of the things he was saying.

“I can’t help it,” he explained to Archie, who had given expression to the general opinion about it; “these bally wasps are all over me.”

“It’s your own fault,” said Archie.  “Why do you egg them on?  I don’t have wasps all over me.”

“Conf—­There!  I’ve been stung.”

“You’ve been what?”

“Stung.”

“Stung.  Where?”

“In the neck.”

“In the neck?” Archie turned over to me.  “Simpson,” he said, “has been stung in the neck.  Tell Thomas.”

I woke up Thomas.  “Simpson,” I said, “has been stung in the neck.”

“Good,” said Thomas, and went to sleep again.

“We’ve told Thomas,” said Archie.  “Now, are you satisfied?”

“Get away, you brute,” shouted Simpson, suddenly, and dived under the sheet.