“Well, we can do it, but it isn’t going to be easy,” said Larry, who liked to begin conversations in the middle.

“If anybody can do it, you can,” said Solly, in an artificially hearty voice.

“It’ll mean a lot of new cable; that’s one thing,” Larry continued, and he would have set out at once to explain the delightful difficulties he had discovered, and which he meant to overcome, if Mrs Forrester had not pounced on his companion.

“Roger,” she cried, “how sweet of you to come in all this rain! You don’t know anyone here, do you?”

“Yes; I know the Major and I’ve met Professor Vambrace,” said the young man.

“Twice,” said the Professor.

This is Miss Valentine Rich, of New York, who is going to direct the play; Roger Tasset, Val, who is to be your leading man. And Griselda Webster, who will probably be our Ariel; Lieutenant Tasset. And this is Solly Bridgetower; he will sort of dogsbody and stooge for Miss Rich; he’s just back from Cambridge. Oh, and I almost forgot dear little Freddy, who lives here. And Tom who is going to be our very good friend, I’m sure. Larry, have you met Tom?”

“Hullo, Tom,” said Larry.

Tom had a firm grip on the fact that Larry, at some distant time, had been a major, and was still addressed by his military title; this seemed to him to be the one truly creditable fact about the group of people who had come bursting into his Shed, tracking dirt everywhere, and talking silly. So he gave Larry something which was almost a salute.

“Good workshop you have here,” said Larry. “Got a lathe?”

“No sir,” said Tom.

“Too bad. But we can do most of our building right here,” said the major. “It will save a lot of cartage. We might as well have everything as convenient as possible.”

With these words Tom’s last hope of saving The Shed was slain.

“The rain is growing worse,” said Professor Vambrace. “We shan’t be able to do anything else this afternoon,” said Mrs Forrester. “I suppose we should think about ways of getting home. Now have we really decided that this is the place for the play? If there is an objection of any kind, now is the time to state it.”

“I don’t understand you, Mrs F.,” said Solly spitefully. “You know that we have had our hearts set on this place from the first. Now we’ve got it. Why fuss?”

“Solly!” cried Mrs Forrester, and stamped her foot. But in an instant she was smiling. “He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases,” she said. Solly was always quoting; she could quote too.

“It’s not as cut and dried as all that,” said Larry Pye. “Where’s your heavy duty cable to come from? I’d be glad if somebody would tell me that.” He looked around at the company. All they thought about was strutting in fine clothes. But it was the old story of the grasshopper and the ant; when the practical business had to be done, they had to come to him. He knew very well where the heavy duty cable would be brought in; he had it all clear in his mind; but it would never do for them to know that.

“The lawn and the trees are quite lovely,” said Valentine Rich, “and if you can solve your technical problems, Major Pye, I should like to use this setting very much. I’ve heard that you are a wonderful stage manager, and that you do miracles every year.”

“Don’t know about miracles,” said Larry, looking like a little boy who has been given a six-bladed jack-knife, “but I’ll do my best. Can’t say any more than that.”

“Then I haven’t another worry,” said Miss Rich, smiling at him, whereupon he giggled, and decided that it really took a professional to understand what he was up against.

“Did you see the upper lawn, Roger?” asked Mrs Forrester.

“The Major showed it to me,” said Roger Tasset; “jolly good.”

“It’s wonderful of Roger to act with us,” the president continued. “He’s terribly busy, taking a course, or giving a course, or something. But I know he’s going to be simply wonderful.”

“I don’t guarantee it,” said Roger. “Haven’t done anything in this line since I was at school. Can’t say I know the play awfully well, as a matter of fact. Is it the one where the chap turns into a donkey?”

“No, it’s the one with the shipwreck,” said Solly.

“Oh? Good show!”

“We hope it will be,” Solly replied, with a courtesy which was a little overdone.

The door opened once more, and a man in a raincoat and a sober grey hat stepped inside, lowered his umbrella, and shook it carefully out of the door before bringing it in after him. Not a drop fell on Tom’s floor.

“I’m sorry to be late,” said he. “I had to oversee some detentions.”

It was Hector Mackilwraith. He brought with him an air of calm command, developed during eighteen years in the schoolroom, which had its effect even upon Solly. He did not take charge, but in his presence Mrs Forrester quickly established and ratified the already obvious fact that The Tempest would be performed six weeks hence on the upper lawn at St Agnes’. Major Pye agreed that the problem of the heavy-duty cable, though vexing, could be solved. From measurements supplied by Major Pye it was soon decided by Hector Mackilwraith that a sufficient audience could be accommodated to pay the costs of the production and realize a useful profit. Then a silence descended, and when it was plain that there was nothing more to be said, Griselda suggested that she should fetch the big car and drive them all home. It was Hector Mackilwraith who held his umbrella over her as they walked to the garage; and as they drove about the city, dropping the Little Theatre enthusiasts at their widely separated dwellings, it was Hector Mackilwraith who sat by her side.

When they had gone, Freddy and Tom looked at one another in glum dismay. The coming six weeks stretched before them as a period of sheer Hell.

“Well, if you won’t stay with us, I suppose you won’t,” said Mrs Forrester, with a pout which had been rather attractive fifteen years earlier, “but we could have had a barrel of fun.”

“It’s not that I won’t, Nell; it’s that I can’t,” said Miss Rich patiently. They had covered this ground more than thoroughly during the evening meal. “I shall have to be busy every day, seeing lawyers and auctioneers and so forth. I’d be a nuisance.”

“Well, then, let’s not talk about it any more. We don’t want to quarrel. Though I’ve been looking forward to having you just a little bit to myself. Haven’t I, Roscoe?”

Roscoe nodded, with a smile which might have meant anything, but which probably meant goodwill, sympathy in his wife’s disappointment, understanding of Valentine Rich’s predicament, reluctance to let a friend of his wife’s stop at a hotel, and pleasure that no guest would disturb the peaceful routine of his household. Roscoe Forrester was an admirable salesman; he made a very good income from selling insurance; one of his foremost assets in this highly competitive work was his ability to share with perfect sincerity in several opposed points of view.

They continued with their meal of spiced meat and salad from the delicatessen, ice-cream from the dairy, and cookies from the bakery. Mrs Forrester believed in what she called “streamlining household work”.

The Forresters, as they told everyone they met, had “neither chick nor child”. Their failure to have a chick never provoked surprise, but it was odd that they were childless; they had not sought that condition. But they were not driven apart by it, as people of more intense feelings sometimes are; if anything, Roscoe Forrester was a little more attentive toward his wife for that reason, as if he reproached himself for having failed to provide something which might have given her pleasure. He helped her in any way he could with her amusements, which she called “activities”, and he gave in to her in all matters of dispute. His attitude toward her was admiring and protective, and in his heart he believed that she was a remarkable woman.