her. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer,
like leopards. Freddie, with the expression of one who leads a
forlorn hope, moved his Adam's apple briskly up and down several
times, and spoke.

"How do you do, Lady Underhill?"

"How do you do, Mr. Rooke?"

Lady Underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fond of
the Last of the Rookes. She supposed the Almighty had had some wise
purpose in creating Freddie, but it had always been inscrutable to
her.

"Like you," mumbled Freddie, "to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. Mr.
Devereux."

"Charmed," said Ronny affably.

"Mr. Martyn."

"Delighted," said Algy with old-world courtesy.

Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice.

"How do you do?" she said. "Have you come to meet somebody?"

"I--er--we--er--why--er--" This woman always made Freddie feel as if
he were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that he
had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug
rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business by
himself. "I--er--we--er--came to meet _you_, don't you know!"

"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 to-day. 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. Endeavouring 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