Susan laughed.  She had done her tea; she was feeling very well contented, partly because she had been playing tennis brilliantly, and then every one was so nice; she was beginning to find it so much easier to talk, and to hold her own even with quite clever people, for somehow clever people did not frighten her any more.  Even Mr. Hirst, whom she had disliked when she first met him, really wasn’t disagreeable; and, poor man, he always looked so ill; perhaps he was in love; perhaps he had been in love with Rachel—­she really shouldn’t wonder; or perhaps it was Evelyn—­she was of course very attractive to men.  Leaning forward, she went on with the conversation.  She said that she thought that the reason why parties were so dull was mainly because gentlemen will not dress:  even in London, she stated, it struck her very much how people don’t think it necessary to dress in the evening, and of course if they don’t dress in London they won’t dress in the country.  It was really quite a treat at Christmas-time when there were the Hunt balls, and the gentlemen wore nice red coats, but Arthur didn’t care for dancing, so she supposed that they wouldn’t go even to the ball in their little country town.  She didn’t think that people who were fond of one sport often care for another, although her father was an exception.  But then he was an exception in every way—­such a gardener, and he knew all about birds and animals, and of course he was simply adored by all the old women in the village, and at the same time what he really liked best was a book.  You always knew where to find him if he were wanted; he would be in his study with a book.  Very likely it would be an old, old book, some fusty old thing that no one else would dream of reading.  She used to tell him that he would have made a first-rate old bookworm if only he hadn’t had a family of six to support, and six children, she added, charmingly confident of universal sympathy, didn’t leave one much time for being a bookworm.

Still talking about her father, of whom she was very proud, she rose, for Arthur upon looking at his watch found that it was time they went back again to the tennis court.  The others did not move.

“They’re very happy!” said Mrs. Thornbury, looking benignantly after them.  Rachel agreed; they seemed to be so certain of themselves; they seemed to know exactly what they wanted.

“D’you think they are happy?” Evelyn murmured to Terence in an undertone, and she hoped that he would say that he did not think them happy; but, instead, he said that they must go too—­go home, for they were always being late for meals, and Mrs. Ambrose, who was very stern and particular, didn’t like that.  Evelyn laid hold of Rachel’s skirt and protested.  Why should they go?  It was still early, and she had so many things to say to them.  “No,” said Terence, “we must go, because we walk so slowly.  We stop and look at things, and we talk.”

“What d’you talk about?” Evelyn enquired, upon which he laughed and said that they talked about everything.