the place about."

"Oh," said Gwen, crestfallen, "I really don't know anything about how
houses ought to look. I only know my cousin Lady Goosemere's house and
mother's father's old place, my grandfather's and--and--I do like the
Lodgings, Mrs. Dashwood," she added in confusion.

"So do I," said May Dashwood.

"This is the library," said Boreham, opening the door.

Boreham led them from one room to another, making remarks on them
expressly for the enlightenment of Mrs. Dashwood, using language that
was purposely complicated and obscure in order to show Miss Scott that
he was not taking the trouble to give her any information. Whenever he
spoke, he stared straight at May Dashwood, as if he were alone with her.
He did not by any movement or look acknowledge the presence of the
intruder, so that Gwendolen began to wonder how long she would be able
to endure her ill-treatment at Chartcote, without dissolving into tears.
She kept on stealing a glance at the watch on Mrs. Dashwood's wrist, but
she could never make out the time, because the figures were not the
right side up, and she never had time to count them round before Mrs.
Dashwood moved her arm and made a muddle of the whole thing.

But no lunch party lasts for ever, and at last Gwendolen found herself
down in the hall with the taxi grunting at the door and a bustle of
good-byes around her. The rain had stopped. Mrs. Greenleafe Potten and
Bingham were standing together on the shallow steps like two children.
The Hardings were already halfway down the drive. Lady Dashwood looked
out of the window of the taxi at Boreham, as he fastened the door.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Boreham," she said. "Tell Mr. Bingham we can take
him into Oxford."

"He's going to walk," said Boreham, coldly. "He's going to walk back
with Mrs. Potten, who wants to walk, and then return for his bicycle."

"Oh, very well," said Lady Dashwood, leaning back. "Good-bye, so many
thanks, Mr. Boreham."

Boreham's face wore an enigmatic look as he walked up the steps.

Bingham had opened a pocket-book and was making a note in it with a
pencil.

"Excuse me just one moment, Mrs. Potten. I shan't remember if I don't
make a note of it."

The note that Bingham jotted down was: "Sat. Lady Dashwood, dinner 8
o'clock."

Boreham glanced keenly and suspiciously at him, for he heard him murmur
aloud the words he was writing.

Boreham did not see that Bingham had any right to the invitation.

"I've forgo