But there was no use in troubling, and he could do nothing but watch and hope. He noticed that the women-folk had evidently taken up with Cerise and her mother, and he could not but wonder vaguely how it would have been if they could have seen the rooms in Duke Street, Leicester Square, and the picture of Uncle Simon tucked up and snoring in Cerise's little bed.
The tennis began again, and Bobby, firmly pinned by Miss Squire Simpson—she was a plain girl—had to sit watching a game and trying to talk.
The fact that Madame and Cerise were foreigners had evidently condoned their want of that touch in dress which makes for style. They were being led about and shown things by their hostess.
Uncle Simon had vanished towards the rose-garden at the back of the house, in company with a female; she seemed elderly. Bobby hoped for the best.
"Are you down here for long?" asked Miss Squire Simpson.
"Not very long, I think," replied he. "We may be here a month or so—it all depends on my uncle's health."
"That gentleman you came with?"
"Yes."
"He seems awfully jolly."
"Yes—but he suffers from insomnia."