air,
showed up the paleness of her skin and the redness of her lips. At the
last moment, as if under protest, she had pinned some of Bowen's
carnations in her belt.

As she entered the dining-room, Miss Wangle and Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe
exchanged significant glances. Woman-like they sensed something
unusual. Galvin House did not usually dress for dinner.

"Going out?" enquired Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe sweetly.

"Probably," was Patricia's laconic reply.

Soup had not been disposed of (it was soup on Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays; fish on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and neither on
Sundays at Galvin House) before Gustave entered with an enormous
bouquet of crimson carnations. It might almost be said that the
carnations entered propelled by Gustave, as there was very little but
Gustave's smiling face above and the ends of his legs below the screen
of flowers. Instinctively everybody looked at Patricia.

"For you, mees, with Colonel Baun's compliments."

Gustave stood irresolute, the crimson blooms cascading before him.

"You've forgotten the conservatory, Gustave," laughed Mr. Bolton. It
was always easy to identify the facetious from the serious Mr. Bolton;
his jokes were always heralded by a laugh.

"Sir?" interrogated the literal-minded Gustave.

"Never mind, Gustave. Mr. Bolton was joking," said Mrs. Craske-Morton.

"Yes, madame." Gustave smiled a mechanical smile: he overflowed with
tact.

"Where will you have the flowers, Miss Brent?" enquired Mrs.
Craske-Morton. "They are exquisite."

"Try the bath," suggested Mr. Bolton.

"Sir?" from Gustave.

It was Alice, Gustave's assistant in the dining-room during meals, who
created the diversion for which Patricia had been devoutly praying. An
affected little laugh from Miss Sikkum called attention to Alice,
standing just inside the door, with an enormous white and gold box tied
with bright green ribbon.

Patricia regarded the girl in dismay.

"Put them in the lounge, please," she said.

"You are lucky, Miss Brent," giggled Miss Sikkum enviously. "I wonder
what's in the box."

"A chest protector," Mr. Bolton's laugh rang out.

"Really, Mr. Bolton!" from Mrs. Craske-Morton.

Patricia wondered was she lucky? Why should she be made ridiculous in
this fashion?

"I should say chocolates." The suggestion came from Mr. Cordal through
a mouthful of roast beef and Brussels sprouts. Everyone turned to the
speaker, whose gastronomic silence w