ed was closed upon a tragedy.

In one room Mrs. Barnes sat on her bed in an agony of indecision and a
camisole, wondering how the seams of her only evening frock could be
made black with the blue-black ink that had been given her at the
stationer's shop in error.

Mr. James Harris, a little bearded man with long legs and a short body,
stood in front of his glass, frankly baffled by the problem of how to
keep the top of his trousers from showing above the opening of his
low-cut evening waistcoat, an abandoned garment that seemed determined
to show all that it was supposed to hide.

Miss Sikkum was engaged in a losing game with delicacy. On her lap lay
the Brixton "Paris model blouse," which she had adorned with narrow
black velvet ribbon. Should she or should she not enlarge the surface
of exposure? If she did Miss Wangle might think her fast; if she did
not Lord Peter might think her suburban.

Mr. Sefton was at work upon his back hair, striving to remove from his
reflection in the glass a likeness to a sandy cockatoo.

Mr. Cordal was vainly struggling with a voluminous starched shirt,
which as he bent seemed determined to give him the appearance of a
pouter pigeon.

To each his tragedy and to all their anguish. Even Miss Wangle had her
problem. Should she or should she not remove the lace from the modest
V in her black silk evening gown. The thought of the bishop, however,
proved too much for her, and her collar-bones continued to remain a
mystery to Galvin House.

The dinner-gong found everyone anxious and unprepared. All had a
vision of Bowen sitting in judgment upon them and mentally comparing
Galvin House with Park Lane; for in Bayswater Park Lane is the pinnacle
of culture and social splendour.

A few minutes after the last strain of the gong, sounded by Gustave in
a manner worthy of the occasion, had subsided, Miss Sikkum crept out
from her room feeling very "undressed." The sight of Mr. Sefton nearly
drove her back precipitately to the maiden fastness of her chamber.
"Was she really too undressed?" she asked herself.

Slowly the guests descended, each anxious to cede to others the pride
of place, all absorbed with his or her particular tragedy. By the aid
of pins Mr. Cordal had overcome his likeness to a pigeon, but he had
not allowed for movement, which tore the pins from their hold, allowing
his shirt-front to balloon out joyfully before him, for the rest of the
evening obscuring his boots.