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Portia felt her sixpence for the collection between the palm of her right hand and the palm of her glove. The slight tickling, and the milled pressure of the new coin's edge, when she closed her hand, recalled her to where she was—in Seale church, in a congregation of stalwart elderly men and of women in brown, grey, navy or violet, with collars of inexpensive fur. The sun, slanting moltenly in at the south windows, laid a dusty nimbus over the furs, and printed cheeks with the colours of stained glass. Turning her head a little, she perceived people with whom she had been to tea. Above the confident congregation the church rose to its kind inscrutable height. Tilting her chin up, she studied the east window and its glittering tale: she had joined the sermon late and just got the gist of it—though it was after Easter, one must not be more callous than one had been in Lent.

Fanned on down the aisle by blasts from the organ, the choir disappeared in the vestry under the tower. Mrs. Heccomb, as the procession passed, cast some appraising looks at the surplices. Brasso and the devotion of her fellow ladies had given a blond shine to the processional cross. As the last chords sounded, discreet smiles were exchanged across the aisle, and the congregation jumbled happily out. Mrs. Heccomb was a great porch talker, and it was therefore in quite a knot of friends that she and Portia at last started downhill. Daphne and Dickie were not great church-goers: the Sunday after a party they always voted against it. Back at Waikiki the lounge, restored to order, was full of sun; Daphne and Dickie read the Sunday papers in a very strong smell of roasting meat. They had not been down at twenty minutes past ten, when Mrs. Heccomb and Portia had started for church. Outside, gulls skimmed in the rather cold air, and Mrs. Heccomb quickly shut the glass door.

"Hullo," said Dickie to Portia. "And how are you this morning?"

"Very well, thank you."

"Well, at least it is over," said Dickie, returning to the Sunday Pictorial.

Daphne was still wearing her red mules. "Oh goodness," she said. "Cecil is so wet! Coming early like that, then sticking round like that. I don't know how he has the nerve, really... Oh, and I ought to tell you: Clara's left her pearl bag."

Mrs. Heccomb, rearranging one or two objects, said: "How wonderfully you have tidied everything up."

"All but the bookcase," Dickie said pointedly.

"What do you mean about the bookcase, dear?"

"We shall need a glazier to tidy up that bookcase. Daphne's soldier friend put his elbow through it—as you might notice, Mumsie, if you cared to look. There seems to be no suggestion that he should foot the bill."

"Oh, I don't think we could quite ask him, dear... It seemed to be a very successful party."

Daphne, from behind the Sunday Express, said: "It was all right." She raised her voice: "Though some people cut their own friends, then are stuffy to other people's. Mr. Bursely was shoved against the bookcase by Wallace Parker shoving, that rude way. I'm only thankful he didn't hurt himself. I didn't like him to see us so rough-house."

"If you ask me," said Dickie, "I don't suppose he noticed. He'd have stayed stuck in the bookcase if Charlie Hoster hadn't pulled him out. He arrived here pretty lit, and I'm told he nipped down the front and had two or three quick ones at the Imperial Arms. I wonder what he'll smash next time he comes blowing in. I cannot say that that is a fellow I like. But apparently I do not know what is what."

"Well, Clara liked him all right. That is how she forgot her bag. She stopped on to give him a lift home in her car."

"So you pointed out. Well, if that bag is Clara's, I don't like it: it seems to me to be covered with ants' eggs."

"Well, why don't you tell her so?"

"I no doubt shall. I shall no doubt tell her this afternoon. Clara and I are going to play golf."

"Oh you are a mean, Dickie! You never said! Evelyn's expecting us all to badminton."

"Well, she will simply have to expect