“Indeed! That was very kind of you!” 

 “Oh, not at all.” 

 “Thought we’d welcome you back to the old homestead,” said Ronny, beaming. 

 “What could be sweeter?” said Algy. He produced a cigar-case, and extracted a formidable torpedo-shaped Havana. He was feeling delightfully at his ease, and couldn’t understand why Freddie had made such a fuss about meeting this nice old lady. “Don’t mind if I smoke, do you? Air’s a bit raw today. Gets into the lungs.” 

 Derek chafed impotently. These unsought allies were making a difficult situation a thousand times worse. A more acute observer than young Mr Martyn, he noted the tight lines about his mother’s mouth and knew them for the danger-signal they were. Endeavoring to distract her with light conversation, he selected a subject which was a little unfortunate. 

 “What sort of crossing did you have, mother?” 

 Lady Underhill winced. A current of air had sent the perfume of Algy’s cigar playing about her nostrils. She closed her eyes, and her face turned a shade paler. Freddie, observing this, felt quite sorry for the poor old thing. She was a pest and a pot of poison, of course, but all the same, he reflected charitably, it was a shame that she should look so green about the gills. He came to the conclusion that she must be hungry. The thing to do was to take her mind off it till she could be conducted to a restaurant and dumped down in front of a bowl of soup. 

 “Bit choppy, I suppose, what?” he bellowed, in a voice that ran up and down Lady Underhill’s nervous system like an electric needle. “I was afraid you were going to have a pretty rough time of it when I read the forecast in the paper. The good old boat wobbled a bit, eh?” 

 Lady Underhill uttered a faint moan. Freddie noticed that she was looking deucedly chippy, even chippier than a moment ago. 

 “It’s an extraordinary thing about that Channel crossing,” said Algy Martyn meditatively, as he puffed a refreshing cloud. “I’ve known fellows who could travel quite happily everywhere else in the world—round the Horn in sailing-ships and all that sort of thing—yield up their immortal soul crossing the Channel! Absolutely yield up their immortal soul! Don’t know why. Rummy, but there it is!” 

 “I’m like that myself,” assented Ronny Devereux. “That dashed trip from Calais gets me every 

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