who had recently made their home in the county. The husband
was a popular novelist, who had left the distractions of London in order
to win fame in peace and quietness in the country. Mrs. Weyne, who had
been slightly acquainted with Mrs. Heredith before her marriage, was
delighted to learn she was to have her for a neighbour. She had arranged
the evening on her behalf, and had asked Miss Heredith to bring all her
guests. The event was to mark the close of the house party, which was to
break up on the following day. Unfortunately, Mrs. Heredith had fallen
ill a few hours previously, and it was doubtful whether she would be
able to join in the festivity.

"I hope you will all remember that dinner is to be a quarter of an hour
earlier to-night," said Miss Heredith, as she handed a cup of tea to one
of her guests. "It is a long drive to the Weynes' place, so I shall
order the cars for half-past seven."

The guests glanced at their hostess and murmured polite assent.

"I am looking forward to the visit so much," said the lady to whom Miss
Heredith had handed the cup. "It will be so romantic--a country dance in
a lonely house on a hill. What an adorable cup, dear Miss Heredith! I
love Chinese egg-shell porcelain, but this is simply beyond anything!
It's----"

"Whatever induced Dolly Weyne to bury herself in the country?" abruptly
exclaimed a young woman with cropped hair and khaki uniform. "She
loathed the country before she was married."

"Mrs. Weyne is a wife, and it is her duty to like her husband's home,"
said Miss Heredith a little primly. She disapproved of the speaker,
whose khaki uniform, close-cropped hair, crossed legs, and arms a-kimbo
struck her as everything that was modern and unwomanly.

"Then what induced Teddy Weyne to bury himself alive in the wilds? I'm
sure it must be terrible living up there alone, with nothing but earwigs
and owls for company."

"Mr. Weyne is a writer," rejoined Miss Heredith. "He needs seclusion."

"My husband doesn't," said a little fair-haired woman. "He says
newspaper men can write anywhere. And we know another writer, a Mr.
Harland, I think his name is, who writes long articles in the Sunday
newspapers----"

"I don't think his name is Harland, dear," interrupted another lady.
"Something like it, but not Harland. Dear me, what is it?"

"Oh, the name doesn't matter," retorted her friend. "The point is that
he writes long articles in his London office. Why can't Mr. Weyne d