office.  A single consideration appealed to him:  How could he now best serve his country?  Beyond question he could now serve his country best as an architect.  If his duty marched with his advantage, what matter?  It was up to the individual to look out for himself.  And he, George, with already an immense reputation, would steadily enhance his reputation, which in the end would surpass all others in the profession.  The war could not really touch him—­no more than it could touch Sir Isaac; by good fortune, and by virtue of the impartiality of his intelligence, he was above the war....  Yes, Sir Isaac, disliked and unwillingly but deeply respected, had cleared his ideas for him.

In Elm Park Gardens he met the white-clad son of a Tory M.P. who lived in that dignified street.

“The very man!  Come and make a fourth, will you, Cannon?” asked the youth, dandiacal in flannels, persuasively and flatteringly.

George demanded with firmness: 

“Who are the other two?”

“Miss Horton and Gladys What’s-her-name.”

Why shouldn’t he play at tennis?  It was necessary to keep fit.

“All right.  But not for long, you know.”

“That’s all right.  Hurry up and get into your things.”

“Ten minutes.”

And in little more than ten minutes he was swinging a racket on the private sward that separates Elm Park Gardens East from Elm Park Gardens West, and is common to the residents of both.  He had not encountered Lois at home, and had not thought it necessary to seek her out.  He and she were often invited to play tennis in Elm Park Gardens.

The grass was beautifully kept.  At a little distance two gardeners were at work, and a revolving sprinkler whirled sprays of glinting water in a wide circle.  The back windows of the two streets disclosed not the slightest untidiness nor deshabille; rising irregularly in tier over tier to the high roof-line, they were all open, and all neatly curtained, and many of them had gorgeous sun-blinds.  The sound of one or two pianos emerged faintly on the warm, still afternoon.  Miss Horton and the slim Gladys were dressed in white, with short skirts, at once elegant and athletic.  Miss Horton, very tall and strong, with clear eyes, and a complexion damaged by undue exposure to healthy fresh air, was a fine player of many years’ experience, now at the decline of her powers.  She played seriously, every stroke conscientious and calculated, and she gave polite, good-humoured hints to the youth, her partner.  George and Gladys were together.  Gladys, eighteen, was a delightful girl, the raw material of a very sound player; she held herself well, and knew by instinct what style was.  A white belt defined her waist in the most enchanting fashion.  George appreciated her, as a specimen of the newest generation of English girls.  There were thousands of them in London alone, an endless supply, with none of the namby-pambiness and the sloppiness