He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. “Will you come this way,” she said, “into the drawing-room? There is no one there just now. “So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile.
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