rdrobe. Gertie had only to ring, and the maid
would come at once to help her to dress. Gertie said she had done this
without assistance since the age of three.

Apologies were made later for the brevity of the evening meal, but it
seemed to her a dinner that could only be eaten by folk who had starved
for weeks. Her cousin sat opposite, and she watched his methods as
each course arrived; envied the composure with which Clarence dealt
with such trying dishes as _vol au vent_ and artichokes. Her serviette
was of a larkish disposition, declining to remain on her lap, and
distress increased each time that Henry recovered it; generally, at
these moments of confusion, Lady Douglass took the opportunity to send
down some perplexing inquiry, and the girl felt grateful to Henry for
replying on her behalf. Henry, it appeared, was to contribute to the
programme at the hall, but he declined to give particulars; the
disaster would, he said, be serious enough when it came. Jim Langham
excused himself after dinner from joining the party on the grounds that
he had to play billiards with the groom; and this reminded him of one
of the groom's stories which (taking her aside) he thought Miss Higham
as a Londoner would relish. The anecdote was but half told when Miss
Higham turned abruptly.

"That's the right way," said old Mrs. Douglass to her approvingly.

At the door of the town hall carriages and motor cars were setting folk
down, and Gertie, who had hoped the new blouse would enable her to
smile at country costumes, felt depressed by their magnificence. In
the front row Lady Douglass stood up, nodded, gave brief ingratiating
smiles, and told people how remarkably well they were looking. Gertie,
comforted by the near presence of her cousin, glanced over her
shoulder, and wished she were with the shilling folk.

"Care to see the programme, Gertie?"

"I'll do the same as I do at a music hall," she said, "and take it as
it comes. How did you think I managed at dinner, Clarence?"

"Capitally!"

"I had a knife and two forks left at the end," she said regretfully.

"A recitation," Clarence read from his programme. "Our friend ought to
be here."

"Who do you mean?"

"Bulpert. You remember Bulpert, don't you?"

"I'd nearly forgotten him," she admitted.

There was an interval after men had sung and ladies had played, and a
nervous youth had given imitations of popular actors who, it seemed,
possessed the same tone of