, at a loss to
understand Patricia's mood.

"No!" snapped Patricia, who was already feeling the reaction. "It's
like being engaged to a chameleon, or a quick-change artist. They've
made him a 'R.S.O.' as well." Under her lashes Patricia saw, with keen
appreciation, the quick glances that were exchanged.

"You mean a D.S.O., Distinguished Service Order," explained Mr. Bolton.
"An R.S.O. is er--er--something you put on letters."

"Is it?" enquired Patricia innocently, "I'm so stupid at remembering
such things."

"He was wearing the ribbon of the Military Cross, too," bubbled Mrs.
Mosscrop-Smythe.

"Was he?" Patricia was afraid of overdoing the pose of innocence she
had adopted. "What a nuisance."

"A nuisance!" There was surprised impatience in Miss Wangle's voice.

Patricia turned to her sweetly. "Yes, Miss Wangle. It gives me such a
lot to remember. Now let me see." She proceeded to tick off each word
upon her fingers. "He's a Lieutenant-Colonel Peter Bowen, D.S.O., M.C.
Is that right?"

"Bowen," almost shrieked Miss Wangle. "You said Brown."

"Did I? I'm awfully sorry. My memory's getting worse than ever."
Then a wave of mischief took possession of her. "Do you know when I
went up to him to-night I hadn't the remotest idea of what his
Christian name was."

"Then what on earth do you call him then?" cried Mrs. Craske-Morton.

"Call him?" queried Patricia, as she rose and gathered up her gloves.
"Oh!" indifferently, "I generally call him 'Old Thing,'" and with that
she left the lounge, conscious that she had scored a tactical victory.

CHAPTER IV

THE MADNESS OF LORD PETER BOWEN

When Patricia awakened the next morning, it was with the feeling that
she had suffered some terrible disappointment. As a child she
remembered experiencing the same sensation on the morning after some
tragedy that had resulted in her crying herself to sleep. She opened
her eyes and was conscious that her lashes were wet with tears.
Suddenly the memory of the previous night's adventure came back to her
with a rush and, with an angry dab of the bedclothes, she wiped her
eyes, just as the maid entered with the cup of early-morning tea she
had specially ordered.

With inspiration she decided to breakfast in bed. She could not face a
whole table of wide-eyed interrogation. "Oh, the cats!" she muttered
under her breath. "I hate women!" Later she slipped out of the house
unobserved, with what she described