“Because when I play that sort of game I play cricket,” Alec retorted. “Then you have fielders all round to stop the balls. It saves an awful lot of trouble.”
Roger turned to Barbara. “Do you hear that, Barbara? I appeal to you. My tennis may perhaps be a little strenuous, but—— Oh, hullo, Major. We were just thinking about getting up a four for tennis. Are you game?”
The newcomer, a tall, sallow, taciturn sort of person, bowed slightly to Barbara. “Good-morning, Miss Shannon. Tennis, Sheringham? No, I’m sorry, but I’m much too busy this morning.”
He went to the sideboard, inspected the dishes gravely, and helped himself to some fish. Scarcely had he taken his seat with it than the door opened again and the butler entered.
“Can I speak to you a moment, please, sir?” asked the latter in a low voice.
The Major glanced up. “Me, Graves? Certainly.” He rose from his seat and followed the other out of the room.
“Poor Major Jefferson!” Barbara observed.
“Yes,” said Roger with feeling. “I’m glad I haven’t got his job. Old Stanworth’s an excellent sort of fellow as a host, but I don’t think I should care for him as an employer. Eh, Alec?”
“Jefferson seems to have his hands pretty full. It’s a pity, because he really plays a dashed good game of tennis. By the way, what would you call him exactly? A private secretary?”
“Sort of, I suppose,” said Roger. “And everything else as well. A general dogsbody for the old man. Rotten job.”