“I shall not go,” shuddered Mrs. Marland.
“An hour after sunset!”
“Half an hour. She might be early—and we’ll stay half an hour after. We’ll give her a fair show.”
“Come,” thought Charlie. “I shall get an hour with Agatha.”
“You’ll come, Charlie?” asked Victor.
“Oh, all right,” he answered, hiding all signs of vexation. He could get back by six and join the party. But why was Mrs. Marland looking at him?
The first step, however, towards getting back is to get there, and Charlie found this none so easy. After lunch came lawn-tennis, and he was impressed. Mr. Vansittart played a middle-aged game, and Victor had found little leisure for this modest sport among his more ambitious amusements. Charlie had to balance Millie Bushell, and he spent a very hot and wearying afternoon. They would go on: Victor declared it was good for him, Uncle Van delighted in a hard game (it appeared to be a very hard game to him from the number of strokes he missed), and Millie grew in vigor, ubiquity, and (it must be added) intensity of color as the hours wore away. It was close on five before Charlie, with a groan, could throw down his racquet.
“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Marland.
“Charlie, dear,” called Lady Merceron, who had been talking comfortably to Mrs. Bushell in the shade, “come and hand the tea. I’m sure you must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot you look!”
“She never will take any care of her complexion, complained Mrs. Bushell.