She was dressing for dinner. Next door, she heard Tom splashing in his bath, and singing over and over again the refrain of one of his three tunes: Oh, lucky Jim, How...wi...en-vy-him. Each time she heard the mournful bellow, the same memory cut across her exasperation. She remembered August, and her home, hundreds of years ago; and the garden fete on the sunny lawn. She saw the Parish Ladies sitting on the imported cane Parish Room chairs, and sinking too far into the grass, for it had been a wet summer.