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“You’re WHAT?” Jonathan was so surprised–or pretended to be–that he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing.

“All I mean is,” said Stanley, “I’ve no time to–to–to fool about. I want to get this over. I’m in a hurry. I’ve work to do this morning–see?”

Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. “Pass, friend!” said the bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a ripple…But curse the fellow! He’d ruined Stanley’s bathe. What an unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt cheated.

Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn’t help feeling he’d be caught out one day, and then what an almighty cropper he’d come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! And now there came another. That was the way to live–carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to give way to it–that was what was needed. It was this tension that was all wrong. To live–to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to whisper, “Why not?”

But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felt his bathe was spoilt. He’d stayed in too long.

III

Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate.

“I’ve just got twenty-five minutes,” he said. “You might go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?”

“Mother’s just gone for it,” said Beryl. She sat down at the table and poured out his tea.

“Thanks!” Stanley took a sip. “Hallo!” he said in an astonished voice, “you’ve forgotten the sugar.”

“Oh, sorry!” But even then Beryl didn’t help him; she pushed the basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in- law and leaned back.

“Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked carelessly, fingering his collar.

Beryl’s head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers.

“Nothing,” said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at Stanley. “Why should there be?”

“O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather–“

At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse’s tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray.