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The car, returning faster than it had come down that morning, had already passed the outskirt villas, and was breasting the hill to where, among fields and the old trees, Charmleigh lay apart from commoner life. Turning into his drive, Mr. Bosengate thought with a certain surprise: ‘I wonder what she does think of! I wonder!’ He put his gloves and hat down in the outer hall and went into the lavatory, to dip his face in cool water and wash it with sweet-smelling soap–delicious revenge on the unclean atmosphere in which he had been stewing so many hours. He came out again into the hall dazed by soap and the mellowed light, and a voice from half-way up the stairs said: “Daddy! Look!” His little daughter was standing up there with one hand on the banisters. She scrambled on to them and came sliding down, her frock up to her eyes, and her holland knickers to her middle. Mr. Bosengate said mildly:

“Well, that’s elegant!”

“Tea’s in the summer-house. Mummy’s waiting. Come on!”

With her hand in his, Mr. Bosengate went on, through the drawing-room, long and cool, with sun-blinds down, through the billiard-room, high and cool, through the conservatory, green and sweet-smelling, out on to the terrace and the upper lawn. He had never felt such sheer exhilarated joy in his home surroundings, so cool, glistening and green under the July sun; and he said:

“Well, Kit, what have you all been doing?”

“I’ve fed my rabbits and Harry’s; and we’ve been in the attic; Harry got his leg through the skylight.”

Mr. Bosengate drew in his breath with a hiss.

“It’s all right, Daddy; we got it out again, it’s only grazed the skin. And we’ve been making swabs–I made seventeen, Mummy made thirty-three, and then she went to the hospital. Did you put many men in prison?”

Mr. Bosengate cleared his throat. The question seemed to him untimely.

“Only two.”

“What’s it like in prison, Daddy?”

Mr. Bosengate, who had no more knowledge than his little daughter, replied in an absent voice:

“Not very nice.”

They were passing under a young oak tree, where the path wound round to the rosery and summer-house. Something shot down and clawed Mr. Bosengate’s neck. His little daughter began to hop and suffocate with laughter.

“Oh, Daddy! Aren’t you caught! I led you on purpose!”

Looking up, Mr. Bosengate saw his small son lying along a low branch above him–like the leopard he was declaring himself to be (for fear of error), and thought blithely: ‘What an active little chap it is!’ “Let me drop on your shoulders, Daddy–like they do on the deer.”

“Oh, yes! Do be a deer, Daddy!”

Mr. Bosengate did not see being a deer; his hair had just been brushed. But he entered the rosery buoyantly between his offspring. His wife was standing precisely as he had imagined her, in a pale blue frock open at the neck, with a narrow black band round the waist, and little accordion pleats below. She looked her coolest. Her smile, when she turned her head, hardly seemed to take Mr. Bosengate seriously enough. He placed his lips below one of her half-drooped eyelids. She even smelled of roses. His children began to dance round their mother, and Mr. Bosengate,–firmly held between them, was also compelled to do this, until she said:

“When you’ve quite done, let’s have tea!”

It was not the greeting he had imagined coming along in the car. Earwigs were plentiful in the summer-house–used perhaps twice a year, but indispensable to every country residence–and Mr. Bosengate was not sorry for the excuse to get out again. Though all was so pleasant, he felt oddly restless, rather suffocated; and lighting his pipe, began to move about among the roses, blowing tobacco at the greenfly; in war-time one was never quite idle! And suddenly he said:

“We’re trying a wretched Tommy at the assizes.”

His wife looked up from a rose.

“What for?”

“Attempted suicide.”

“Why did he?”

“Can’t stand the separation from his wife.”