Beatrice Ashby looked down the dining-table at her nephew Patrick and thought how well he was doing it. The occasion must be an extraordinarily difficult one for him, but he was carrying it off beautifully. He was neither awkward nor exuberant. He brought to the situation the same quiet detachment that he had shown on their first meeting in that Pimlico room. It was a very adult quality, and a little surprising in a boy not yet twenty-one. He had great dignity this Patrick Ashby, she thought, watching him dealing with the Rector. Surely never before can anyone have been so silent by habit without appearing either stiff or stupid.

It was she who had brought Simon up, and she was pleased with the result. But this boy had brought himself up, and the result was even better, it seemed. Perhaps it was a case of “giving the first seven years” and the rest followed automatically. Or perhaps it was that the goodness in Patrick had been so innate that he had needed no other guidance. He had followed his own lights, and the result was this quiet, adult young man with the still face.

It was a mask of a face; a sad mask, on the whole. It was such a contrast to the similar set of features in Simon’s mobile countenance that they reminded one of those reversible comedy-tragedy masks that are used to decorate the title-pages of plays.

Simon was being particularly gay to-night, and Bee’s heart ached for him. He too was doing it well, and to-night she loved him almost without reservation. Simon was abdicating, and doing it with a grace and spontaneity that she would not have believed possible. She felt a little guilty that she had underrated him. She had not credited the selfish, acquisitive Simon with such a power of renunciation.

They were choosing a name for Honey’s filly foal, and the conversation was growing ribald. Nancy was insisting that “honey” was an endearment, and should be translated as “poppet,” and Eleanor said that no thoroughbred as good as Honey’s present foal should be damned by a name like Poppet. If Eleanor had refused to dress especially for Patrick’s arrival, she had now made up for it. It was a long time since Bee had seen her looking so well or so pretty. Eleanor belonged to a type which did not glow easily.

“Brat is in love with Honey,” Eleanor said.

“I suppose Bee dragged you round the paddocks before you were well over the doorstep,” said Nancy. “Were you impressed, Brat?”

She too had adopted the nickname. Only the Rector called him Patrick.

“I’m in love with the whole bunch,” Brat said. “And I found an old friend.”

“Oh? Who was that?”

“Regina.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Poor old Regina. She must be about twenty!” Nancy said.

“Not so much of the ‘poor’,” said Simon. “Regina has kept us shod and clothed for a whole generation. We ought to pay her a dividend.”

“She takes her dividends out in pasture,” Eleanor said. “She was always a greedy eater.”

“When you drop foals like Regina year after year without a break, you’re entitled to an appetite,” Simon said.

Simon was drinking a great deal more than usual, but it seemed to be having little effect on him. Bee thought that the Rector looked at him now and then with pity in his eyes.

And Brat, too, at the other end of the table, was watching Simon, but without pity. Pity was not an emotion that Brat indulged in very often: like everyone who despises self-pity he did not readily pity others; but it was not because of his native disinclination to pity that he withheld sympathy from Simon Ashby. It was not even because Simon was his declared enemy; he had admired enemies before now. It was because there was something about Simon Ashby that repelled him. There was something unaccountable about Simon. There he sat, being light-hearted and charming, and there sat his relations and friends silently applauding his nobility and his courage. They were applauding an “act,” but they would all be staggered to know what an act Simon was really putting on for their benefit.

Watching him as he displayed his graces, Brat felt that Simon reminded him of someone that he had met quite lately. Someone who had just that air of breeding, and excellent good manners, and good looks, and that — unaccountability. Who could that have been?

He was maddened by that tip-of-the-tongue feeling. In one more second he would remember. Loding? No. Someone on the ship coming over? Not very likely. That lawyer chap: the K.C. chap, Macdermott? No. Then who could it ——

“Don’t you think so, Patrick?”

It was the Rector again. He must be careful with the old boy. He had been more afraid of meeting George Peck than of anyone but Simon. After a twin brother there is no one who is liable to remember so much about you or to remember that much so well as the man who taught you. There would be a score of small things that George Peck would know about Patrick Ashby that not even Patrick Ashby’s mother would know. But the meeting had gone off very well. Nancy Peck had kissed him on both cheeks and said: “Oh, dear, you’ve got very grown-up and serious, haven’t you!”

“Patrick always was,” the Rector had said, and had shaken hands.

He had looked consideringly at Brat, but no more consideringly than was normal in a man examining an old pupil met after a decade of absence. And Brat, who had no love for the Cloth, found himself liking the Rector. He was still wary of him, but the wariness was due not to the Rector’s calling but to his knowledge of Pat Ashby, and to the intelligence and penetration of the eyes in his simian face.

Considering that intelligence, Brat was glad that he was particularly well primed in the matter of Pat Ashby’s schooling. The Rector was Alec Loding’s brother-in-law, and Loding had had what he called a front-stall view of the Ashby twins’ education.

As for Alec Loding’s sister, she was the most beautiful woman that Brat had ever seen. He had never heard of the famous Nancy Ledingham, but her brother had been eloquent about her. “Could have had anyone in the world; any man would have been delighted to keep her just to look at; but she had to choose George Peck.” He had been shown Nancy in every kind of garment, from a swimming suit to her court presentation gown, but none of the photographs had done justice to her serene beauty, her gaiety, her general niceness. He felt that George Peck must be all right if Nancy had married him.

“Was that the Toselli child you had out with you?” she was saying to Eleanor. “That object I met you with this afternoon?”

“That was Tony,” Eleanor said.

“How he brought back the days of my youth!”

“Tony did? How?”

“You won’t remember it, but there used to be things called cavalry regiments. And every regiment had a trick-riding team. And every trick-riding team had a “comedy” member. And every “comedy” member of a trick-riding team looked just like Tony.”

“So they did!” Bee said, delighted. “That was what he reminded me of this afternoon and I couldn’t think of it at the time. That masterly irrelevance. The completely unrelated garments.”

“You may wonder why I took him out at all,” Eleanor remarked. “But after Sheila Parslow he’s a positive holiday. He’ll ride quite well some day, Tony.”

“To the prospective horseman all things are forgiven, are they?” the Rector said, mocking mildly.

“Doesn’t La Parslow get any better?” Simon asked.

“She will never get any better. She skates about in the saddle like a block of ice on a plate. I could weep for the horse all the time we are out. Luckily Cherrypicker has an indestructible frame and practically no feelings.”

The move from the dining-room to the living-room produced an anti-climax. The talk ceased to flow and ran into aimless trickles. Brat was suddenly so tired that he could hardly stand up. He hoped that no one would spring anything on him now; his normally hard head was muzzy with unaccustomed wine, and his thoughts fumbled and stuck. The twins said good night and went upstairs. Bee poured the coffee which had been placed in readiness for them on a low table by the fire, and it was not as hot as it should have been. Bee made despairing grimaces at Nancy.

“Our Lana, is it?” Nancy asked, sympathetic.

“Yes. I suppose she had to meet our Arthur and couldn’t wait another ten minutes.”

Simon, too, fell silent, as if the effort he had been making seemed suddenly not worth while. Only Eleanor seemed to have brought from the dining-room the warmth and happiness that had made dinner a success. In the moments of silence between the slow spurts of talk the rain fell against the tall windows with a soft shush.

“You were right about the weather, Aunt Bee,” Eleanor said. “She said this morning that it was that too-bright kind that would bring rain before night.”

“Bee is perennially right,” the Rector said, giving her a look that was half a smile, half a benediction.

“It sounds loathsome,” Bee said.

Nancy waited until they had lingered properly over their coffee and then said: “It has been a very full day for Brat, Bee; and I expect you are all tired. We won’t stay now, but you’ll come over and see us when you can crawl out from under the crush, won’t you, Brat?”

Simon fetched her wraps and they all went out to the doorstep to see their guests off. On the doorstep Nancy took off her evening shoes, tucked them under her arm, and stepped into a pair of Wellingtons that she had left behind the door. Then she tucked her other arm under her husband’s, huddled close to him under their single umbrella, and walked away with him into the night.

“Good old Nancy,” Simon said. “You can’t keep a Ledingham down.” He sounded just a little drunk.

“Dear Nan,” Bee said softly. She moved into the living-room and surveyed it in an absent fashion.

“I think Nan is right,” she said. “It is time we all went to bed. It has been an exciting day for all of us.”

“We don’t want it to end so soon, do we?” Eleanor said.

“You have La Parslow at nine-thirty to-morrow,” Simon reminded her. “I saw it in the book.”

“What were you doing with the riding book?”

“I like to see that you’re not cheating on your income tax.”

“Oh, yes, let’s go to bed,” Eleanor said, with a wide happy yawn. “It’s been a wonderful day.”

She turned to Brat to say good night, became suddenly shy, gave him her hand and said: “Good night then, Brat. Sleep well,” and went away upstairs.

Brat turned to Bee, but she said: “I shall come in to see you on my way u............