om a suggestion of furniture polish," began Elton, "it is----"

"Hun!" cried Lady Peggy as she whisked over to where she had left Uncle.

"Lady Peggy is rather spoiled," said Elton to Miss Brent. "I fear she
trades upon having the prettiest ankles in London."

Miss Brent turned upon Elton one glance, then with head in air and lips
tightly compressed, she stalked away. Elton watched her in surprise,
unconscious that his casual reference to the ankles of the daughter of
a peer had been to Miss Brent the last straw.

"Hate at the prow and virtue at the helm," he murmured as she
disappeared.

Miss Brent was now convinced beyond all power of argument to the
contrary that her call had landed her in the very midst of an
ultra-fast set. She was unaware that Godfrey Elton was notorious among
his friends for saying the wrong thing to the right people.

"You never know what Godfrey will say," his Aunt Caroline had remarked
on one occasion when he had just confided to the vicar that all
introspective women have thick ankles, "and the dear vicar is so
sensitive."

It seemed that whenever Elton elected to emerge from the mantle of
silence with which he habitually clothed himself, it was in the
presence of either a sensitive vicar or someone who was sensitive
without being a vicar.

Once when Lady Gilcray had rebuked him for openly admiring Jenny Adam's
legs, which were displayed each night to an appreciative public at the
Futility Theatre, Elton had replied, "A woman's legs are to me what
they are to God," which had silenced her Ladyship, who was not quite
sure whether it was rank blasphemy or a classical quotation; but she
never forgave him.

Miss Brent made several efforts to approach Lady Meyfield to have a few
minutes' talk with her about the subject of her call; but without
success. She was always surrounded either by arriving or departing
guests, and soldiers seemed perpetually hovering about ready to pounce
upon her at the first opportunity.

At last Miss Brent succeeded in attracting her hostess' attention, and
before she knew exactly what had happened, Lady Meyfield had shaken
hands, thanked her for coming, hoped she would come again soon, and
Miss Brent was walking downstairs her mission unaccomplished. Her only
consolation was the knowledge that within the next day or two _The
Morning Post_ would put matters upon a correct footing.

A mile away Patricia was tapping out upon her typewriter that "pigs are