“Oh, Lord, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, throwing his hat on to a chair. “Betty, fancy you grinding over a blasted typewriter! What’s the joke?”

“No joke at all,” she said, giving him her hand. “I love it. Sit down, won’t you? I must just finish this off. Can we have tea soon, please, Mrs. Cotton?”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Mrs. Cotton said graciously. “The kettle’s just on the bile, as one might say.”

“Priceless old bean,” Wendell remarked as soon as Mrs. Cotton had departed. “Hope you weren’t awfully tired after last night, Betty?”

“No, not a bit. I loved every moment of it.”

“Oh, splendid! Well do it again, what? Am I going to have tea with you?”

“Not if you talk to me while I’m busy,” she smiled, typing harder than ever.

“Can’t help it,” he said. “However d’you manage to do that so fast? I love to see your sweet little fingers dodging about the keyboard like that.”

She looked up gravely, reproof in her eyes. He was not abashed.

“Well, I do, Bets,” he said.

Elizabeth typed on until grampus-breathing without heralded the approach of Mrs. Cotton. She came in with the tea-tray and proceeded to lay the table:

“I cut some extry bread an’ butter,” she informed Elizabeth. “If you want anything else just ring the bell an’ I’ll pop up.”

“Thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think we shall want anything.”

“Well, you never know,” Mrs. Cotton said philosophically, and went out.

“You couldn’t be dull with her about the place,” Wendell said.

“One can have too much of a good thing,” Elizabeth answered. “She’s told me about every illness she’s ever had, and all her relations’ illnesses.”

“Jolly gruesome. Is Stephen down at Queen’s Halt, or is it true that he’s buzzed off abroad?”

“He’s in Spain. At least, I think so.”

“Romantic, what? When did you leave him? Long ago?”

“March.” Elizabeth wished that he would not talk about it. “Sugar?”

“Three lumps, please. Well, I’d never have thought it of you, Betty. Very fine effort, what?”

She was silent; it had not struck her in that light.

“Tell you what we must do,” Wendell said. “Run down to Roehampton and see some polo. Ever seen any?”

“Yes, several times. At Hurlingham. I’d like that, Charles. Only you mustn’t spoil me.”

“Couldn’t.” Then he started to tell her about his newest car, and how he had taken the little ’bus down to Brooklands last week to see what she could do. He did not go until past six, and it did not seem as though he would have gone then if Elizabeth had not promised to go for a motor-drive with him on Sunday.