He missed his shot, and Violet gave a cry of triumph. It gave the game into her hands. She went out with a few pretty finish shots.
“Not up to your usual mark that, sir!” said Riversley.
“No,” said North. “It was a rotten shot!” And he did care. He was annoyed with himself. “Rotten!” he said, and played the stroke over again.
“Absolutely unworthy!” laughed his daughter.
She put out first one and then the other of her balls with deft precision and waved her mallet to an approaching car.
“Here are the Condors,” she said. “And Condie himself! I haven’t seen him for ages, the old dear!”
She skimmed the lawn like a bird towards the front door.
Mansfield was tenderly assisting an enormously stout gentleman to get out of the car backwards.
“Excellent, bombardier!” said the stout gentleman. “Excellent. You have let me down without a single twinge. Now they put my man into the motor transport. Most unfortunate for me. The knowledge of how to handle a live bomb would have been invaluable.”
He heaved slowly round in time to receive Violet Riversley’s enthusiastic welcome. His face was very round and full, the features, in themselves good, partially buried in many rolls of flesh, the whole aspect one of benign good nature. Only an occasional penetrating flash from under his heavy eyelids revealed the keen intelligence which had given him no small reputation in the political world.