t it would get the better of her from time to time.

This onslaught upon Joan Whitworth took place on the Wednesday evening.
Sir Chichester came into the room as it ended, with a telegram in his
hand.

"Mario Escobar wires, Millie, that he is held up in London by press of
work and will only be able to run down here on Friday for the night."

Hillyard looked up.

"Mario Escobar?"

"Do you know him?" asked Millie Splay.

"Slightly," answered Hillyard. "Press of work! What does he do?"

"Runs about with the girls," said Dennis Brown.

Sir Chichester Splay would not have the explanation.

"Nonsense, my dear Dennis, nonsense, nonsense! He has a great many
social engagements of the most desirable kind. He is, I believe,
interested in some shipping firms."

"I like him," said Millie Splay.

"And so do I," added Joan, "very much indeed." The statement was
defiantly thrown at Harold Jupp.

"I think he is charming," said Miranda.

Harold Jupp looked from one to the other.

"That seems to settle it, doesn't it? But----"

"But what?" asked Sir Chichester.

"Need we listen to the ridiculous exhibitions of male jealousy?" Miranda
asked plaintively.

"But," Harold Jupp repeated firmly, "I do like a man to have another
address besides his club. Now, I will lay a nice five to one that no one
in this room knows where Mario Escobar goes when he goes home."

A moment's silence followed upon Harold Jupp's challenge. To the men,
the point had its importance. The women did not appreciate the
importance, but they recognised that their own menfolk did, and they did
not interrupt.

"It's true," said Sir Chichester, "I always hear from him with his club
as his address. But it simply means that he lives at an hotel and is not
sure that he will remain on."

Thus the little things of every day occupied the foreground of Rackham
Park. Millicent Splay had her worries of which Joan Whitworth was the
cause. She loved Joan; she was annoyed with Joan; she admired Joan; she
was amused at Joan; and she herself could never have told you which of
these four emotions had the upper hand. So inextricably were they
intermingled.

She poured them out to Martin Hillyard, as they drove through the Park
at Midhurst on the Thursday morning.

"What do you think of Joan?" she asked. "She is beautiful, isn't she,
with that mass of golden hair and her eyes?"

"Yes, she is," answered Hillyard.

"And what a fright she is making of herself! Sh