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“Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There’s absolutely no need for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when people persist in saying how tired you’re looking. Here’s this huge house and garden. Surely you could be happy in–in–appreciating it for a change. Or you could take up some hobby.”

And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven’t.”

Well, well! He couldn’t help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters and Charlotte be if he’d gone in for hobbies, he’d like to know? Hobbies couldn’t pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even.

“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like something one reads about or sees on the stage.”

“That’s all right, my boy,” old Mr. Neave would reply. “Try one of those; I think you’ll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden, you’ll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say.”

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H’m, h’m! Well, well. Perhaps so…

By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue; he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad sills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas–famous in the town– were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, “There is young life here. There are girls–“

The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated.

“And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her rocker.

“Ices!” cried Ethel. “My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet frill.”

“The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion.

“Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily.

“But why, if one has them at all …” began Ethel.

“Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte.

Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave.

“Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? Why isn’t Charles here to help you off with your coat?”

Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of the telephone- room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, “Is that you, father?”