He ran the car a little way along the street and turned where the road widened so as to return the way he had just come. He said again,

‘Only three or four miles.’

Mr Satterthwaite said again, ‘Daltonism.’ It still didn’t mean anything to him, but yet he felt it should. It was a word he’d heard used before.

‘Doverton Kingsbourne,’ said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. He said it very softly under his breath. The two words still meant to him what they had always meant. A place of joyous reunion, a place where he couldn’t get there too quickly. A place where he was going to enjoy himself, even though so many of those whom he had known would not be there any longer. But Tom would be there. His old friend, Tom, and he thought again of the grass and the lake and the river and the things they had done together as boys.

Tea was set out upon the lawn. Steps led out from the French windows in the drawing room and down to where a big copper beech at one side and a cedar of Lebanon on the other made the setting for the afternoon scene. There were two painted and carved white tables and various garden chairs. Upright ones with coloured cushions and lounging ones where you could lean back and stretch your feet out and sleep, if you wished to do so. Some of them had hoods over them to guard you from the sun.

It was a beautiful early evening and the green of the grass was a soft deep colour. The golden light came through the copper beech and the cedar showed the lines of its beauty against a soft pinkish-golden sky.

Tom Addison was waiting for his guest in a long basket chair, his feet up, Mr Satterthwaite noted with some amusement what he remembered from many other occasions of meeting his host, he had comfortable bedroom slippers suited to his slightly swollen gouty feet, and the shoes were odd ones. One red and one green. Good old Tom, thought Mr Satterthwaite, he hasn’t changed. Just the same. And he thought, ‘What an idiot I am. Of course I know what that word meant. Why didn’t I think of it at once?’

‘Thought you were never going to turn up, you old devil,’ said Tom Addison.

He was still a handsome old man, a broad face with deep-set twinkling grey eyes, shoulders that were still square and gave him a look of power. Every line in his face seemed a line of good humour and of affectionate welcome. ‘He never changes,’ thought Mr Satterthwaite.

‘Can’t get up to greet you,’ said Tom Addison. ‘Takes two strong men and a stick to get me on my feet. Now, do you know our little crowd, or don’t you? You know Simon, of course.’