nothing with her racquet, ready. Mamma didn't like the Sutcliffes. She
said they hadn't been nice to poor Papa. They had never asked him again.
You could see she thought you a beast to like them.

"But, Mamma darling, I can't help liking them."

And Mamma would look disgusted and go back to her pansy bed and dig her
trowel in with little savage thrusts, and say she supposed you would
always have your own way.

You would go down to Greffington Hall and find Mr. Sutcliffe sitting
under the beech tree on the lawn, in white flannels, looking rather tired
and bored. And Mrs. Sutcliffe, a long-faced, delicate-nosed Beauty of
Victorian Albums, growing stout, wearing full skirts and white cashmere
shawls and wide mushroomy hats when nobody else did. She had an air of
doing it on purpose, to be different, like royalty. She would take your
hand and press it gently and smile her downward, dragging smile, and she
would say, "How is your mother? Does she mind the hot weather? She must
come and see me when it's cooler." That was the nice way she had, so that
you mightn't think it was Mamma's fault, or Papa's, if they didn't see
each other often. And she would look down at her shawl and gather it
about her, as if in spirit she had got up and gone away.

And Mr. Sutcliffe would be standing in front of you, looking suddenly
years younger, with his eyes shining and clean as though he had just
washed them.

And after tea you would play singles furiously. For two hours you would
try to beat him. When you jumped the net Mrs. Sutcliffe would wave her
hand and nod to you and smile. You had done something that pleased her.