"Astride?" cried Sir Thorald.
"For shame!" said his wife; "I—I—upon my word, I have heard that she has done that, too. Ricky! what do you mean by yawning?"
Ricky had been listening, mouth open. He shut it hurriedly and grew pink to the roots of his colourless hair.
Betty Castlemaine looked at Cecil, and Dorothy Marche laughed.
"What of it?" she said; "there is nobody here who would dare to!"
"Oh, shocking!" said little Alixe, and tried to look as though she meant it.
At that moment Sir Thorald caught sight of Jack Marche, strolling up through the trees, gun tucked under his left arm.
"No luncheon, no salad, no champagne-cup, no cigarette!" he called; "all gone! all gone! Molly's smoked my last—"
"Jack Marche, where have you been?" demanded Molly Hesketh. "No, you needn't dodge my accusing finger! Barbara, look at him!"
"It's a pretty finger—if Sir Thorald will permit me to say so," said Jack, laughing and setting his gun up against a tree. "Dorrie, didn't you save any salad? Ricky, you devouring scourge, there's not a bit of caviare! I'm hungry—Oh, thanks, Betty, you did think of the prodigal, didn't you?"