“Have you come to tea, Morris?” she inquired easily. “Mother’s on the terrace. Isn’t it a shame to think of leaving the garden and everything next week?”
“Yes,” said Morris energetically. “It’s perfectly rotten. Where are you going? Must you go?”
“I suppose so,” she returned, shrugging her shoulders. “We’ve both told mother how much we should prefer to refuse invitations to shooting-parties, but she won’t hear of it.”
“You’ll enjoy them when you’re there,” morosely remarked Morris, with a sudden vision of Rosamund watching some ass bringing down partridges by the dozen. Morris was not a good shot.
“That’s the worst of it!” cried Hazel with mock pathos. “Of course I shall! I always do enjoy going anywhere, and then mother says, ‘What did I tell you?’ Now Rosamund at least has the satisfaction of being consistent. She is quite genuinely bored wherever we go. She didn’t even enjoy going to dances.”
Morris looked much relieved.
“Didn’t you really?” he asked Rosamund.
“Not much,” she admitted.
It was the last satisfaction that he obtained that afternoon. Mrs. Tregaskis, with a readiness born of long habit, made her guest useful by requesting him to roll the tennis lawn, while Rosamund and Frances hunted languidly amongst the bushes for tennis balls lost the previous afternoon. Hazel had prudently disappeared.
“Economy, economy!” shouted Mrs. Tregaskis blithely, and hacked with a racquet at the long grass concealing the roots amongst which possible tennis balls might be imbedded.