“No, really?” He broke off and stretched out a hand in alarm. “I say, you weren’t thinking of having one of those rock cakes, were you?”

“I was. But I won’t if you don’t want me to. Aren’t they good?”

“Good? My dear old soul,” said Mr. Braddock earnestly, “they are Clara’s worst effort—absolutely her very worst. I had to eat one because she came and stood over me and watched me do it. It beats me why you don’t sack that girl. She’s a rotten cook.”

“Sack Claire?” Kay laughed. “You might just as well try to sack her mother.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You can’t sack a Lippett.”

“No, I see what you mean. I wish she wasn’t so dashed familiar with a fellow, though.”

“Well, she has known you almost as long as I have. Mrs. Lippett has always been a sort of mother to you, so I suppose Claire regards herself as a sort of sister.”

“Yes, I suppose it can’t be helped,” said Mr. Braddock bravely. He glanced at his watch. “Ought to be going and dressing. I’ll find you out here before I leave?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, I’ll be pushing along. I say, you do think that story about the Irishman is all right?{35}”

{35}

“Best thing I ever heard,” said Kay loyally.

For some minutes after he had left her she sat back in her chair with her eyes closed, relaxing in the evening stillness of this pleasant garden.

“Finished with the tea, Miss Kay?”

Kay opened her eyes. A solid little figure in a print dress was standing at her side. A jaunty maid’s cap surmounted this person’s tow-coloured hair. She had a perky nose and a wide, friendly mouth, and she beamed upon Kay devotedly.

“Brought you these,” she said, dropping a rug, two cushions and a footstool, beneath the burden of which she had been staggering across the lawn like a small pack mule. “Make you nice and comfortable, and then you can get a nice nap. I can see you’re all tired out.”

“That’s awfully good 

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