Wright. (Forty-thirty) ‘Tours!’ shouted Mr. Palliser. ‘Oh, well played!’ ‘Very sorry,’ said Mrs. Arkwright. (Game)

‘What d’you say your book was called?’ said the Colonel, evidently hoping that this would give a clue to the title of Tranter’s book.

‘Bindweed,’ grunted Reginald, feeling sud-

denly ashamed of it. ‘What?’

‘Bindweed!’ (What the devil does it matter, he thought angrily.)

‘Ah! . . . No, that wasn’t it.’

Five-all. Mr. Cobb has been doing wonder- ful Eastbourne things at the net.

‘Bindweed,’ said Colonel Rudge, pulling at his moustache. ‘That’s that stufi’ that climbs up

things, what? Gets all over the garden.’ ‘Yes.’ '

‘Thought so.’

Mr. Palliser had found a service at last. . . . Oh, well played, darling. . . . The wretched Palliser will dream about you to-night, and, realizing that he may never see you again, blow his brains out in the morning. Think of all the men in the world not married to Sylvia. Poor devils.

‘Sort of gardening book, what?’ said Colonel

Rudge. ‘What? . . . Oh . . . No.’ ‘It is the stuff I mean, isn’t it?’ ‘What is?’

‘The what-d’you-call-it.’ ‘Is what?’