ays did get melancholy if tea was later than usual. Let
us go downstairs and order it at once."

Peggy slid her hand in her friend's arm with a soft explosion of
laughter.

"So we will," she said cheerily. "It's a capital explanation. Tea!
Oh, you sensible old Chubby!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Two evenings later Peggy edged her way out of the crowd at Mrs Rollo's
reception, and sat down in a corner with a gasp of relief. Eunice had
been correct in prophesying a crush, for the suite of entertaining-rooms
seemed a solid block of people, and the babel of voices almost drowned
the music, which was being discoursed at intervals by a violinist with a
shock head, a Signor with an Italian name and an English face, and a
lady with an elaborate coiffure, who, in turn, warbled by herself, and
joined in the rendering of impassioned Italian duets. The accompanist
flourished up and down the piano, and the singers held their music at
arm's length, half-acting the words as they alternately frowned and
smiled, and having gone their separate ways throughout three whole
pages, joined together in a conclusive burst of triumph. The babel of
talk went on with even greater energy when the last note had died away,
and Peggy pursed up her lips in doubtful compliment.

"_That's_ over, thank goodness! I don't know what it was all about, but
she said, `Si,' `Si,' a great many times over, and they seemed happy at
the end, so that's satisfactory. It must be very exhausting to smile so
hard, and sing so loudly at the same time, so I hope other people
appreciated their efforts more than I did." Peggy sighed, and stifled a
yawn. She was feeling just a trifle tired and depressed in spirits, for
the day had been a busy one, and the process of dressing for the evening
had been delayed by one of those careless tricks for which she was
famous. Some trifling alteration having to be made to the belt of her
sash, she had taken it in hand herself, and put it--where? That was the
question. Nowhere in any of the three bedrooms could that belt be
found, and while the brougham waited at the door, and an impatient male
tramped up and down, four distracted females rushed to and fro, opening
drawers, ransacking wardrobes, and burrowing beneath beds. Mrs Saville
grew nervous and hysterical; her husband tugged at his moustache, and
vowed his intention of sending away the brougham and spending the
evening at home if this sort of "foolishness" went on much