Mr. Wrenn looked relieved.

“Oh, I didn’t know. Honestly, my dear, I thought{29} that he must be mentally deficient.” He looked at his watch. “Well, if you think you can entertain him, I will be going along.”

{29}

Mr. Wrenn went on his way; and Kay, passing through the five-barred gate, followed the little gravel path which skirted the house and came into the garden.

Like all the gardens in the neighbourhood, it was a credit to its owner—on the small side, but very green and neat and soothing. The fact that, though so widely built over, Valley Fields has not altogether lost its ancient air of rusticity is due entirely to the zeal and devotion of its amateur horticulturists. More seeds are sold each spring in Valley Fields, more lawn mowers pushed, more garden rollers borrowed, more snails destroyed, more green fly squirted with patent mixtures, than in any other suburb on the Surrey side of the river. Brixton may have its Bon Marché and Sydenham its Crystal Palace; but when it comes to pansies, roses, tulips, hollyhocks and nasturtiums, Valley Fields points with pride.

In addition to its other attractive features, the garden of San Rafael contained at this moment a pinkish, stoutish, solemn young man in a brown suit, who was striding up and down the lawn with a glassy stare in his eyes.

“Hullo, Willoughby,” said Kay.

The young man came out of his trance with a strong physical convulsion.

“Oh, hullo, Kay.”

He followed her across the lawn to the tea table which stood in the shade of a fine tree. For there are trees in this favoured spot as well as flowers.{30}

{30}

“Tea, Willoughby?” said Kay, sinking gratefully into a deck chair. “Or have you had yours?”

“Yes, I had some.... I think——” Mr. Braddock weighed the question thoughtfully. “Yes.... Yes, I’ve had some.”

Kay filled her cup and sipped luxuriously.

“Golly, I’m tired!” she said.

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