CHAPTER XXII.
"TWO MAIDEN LADIES OF UNCERTAIN AGE" How poor a thing is man! Alas, 'tis true; I'd half forget it when I chanced on you! -- SCHILLER.
Thy clothes are all the soul thou hast.
-- BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
The day of the Templeton's garden fete was as bright and cloudless as the heart of man or woman could desire.

Verity, who had dressed herself at an unconscionably early hour, sat at an upper window with Babs in her arms, watching brakes and carriages drive past, filled with gaily attired people.

Malcolm had issued his sovereign mandate that they must not be amongst the earliest arrivals, and Verity panted with impatience long before she could induce her household tyrants to lay aside pipe and cigarette.
Malcolm was not in a festive mood.

He had spent his morning restlessly, pacing up and down the woodlands, with an unread book under his arm.

He was secretly chafed and even a little hurt that neither of the sisters had needed his help.