t, darling," she protested gently, leaning forward
to the mirror and dabbing at herself with a powder-puff. "And it means
the _most_ delightful----"

"I've got Eric Lane coming," interrupted Lady Poynter, groping for a
crumpled half-sheet of paper marked as with the sweeping strokes of a
hay-rake in soft mud. "Who else? Sonia O'Rane you know; Max--or did Max
say he was dining at his club? It doesn't matter, because I can't
pretend that Max contributes much, even though he is my husband; then
there's my nephew, Johnnie Gaymer; and Babs Neave----"

"Dear Babs," murmured Mrs. Shelley with conscientious enthusiasm. It was
her favourite boast that she sincerely tried to make allowances for all
and permitted ill-speaking of none. In the years before the war, when
Lady Barbara's friends were wondering whether they really could continue
to know her, Mrs. Shelley remained embarrassingly loyal. "I haven't seen
her for months."

"She's been nursing at Crawleigh all this time, simply wearing herself
out. I've never seen any one so changed. We met in Bond Street this
morning; I hadn't _meant_ to invite her, but I felt I must do
_some_thing. . . ." Lady Poynter projected herself from the sofa and
rustled to the door, murmuring: "I _must_ find out whether Max is dining
at home to-night."

Mrs. Shelley made her way downstairs to the drawing-room and stood on
the balcony outside one of the French windows, looking down through the
warm dusk on Belgrave Square. An open taxi drew up at the door, and she
watched Mrs. O'Rane descending daintily and smiling at the driver; a
second taxi drove from the opposite corner of the square, and Captain
Gaymer, in Flying Corps uniform, jumped out and hurried to the door,
looking apprehensively at his watch. Mrs. Shelley left the balcony and
shook hands with Lord Poynter who was dutifully dressed in time to
receive any guests who might arrive before his wife appeared.

"Two. Four," he counted timidly. "Babs Neave is sure to be late. That
leaves only Lane. Does every one know him?"

An indistinct murmur was drowned by Gaymer, who knitted his brows and
repeated:

"Lane? Eric Lane? The dramatist fellow? I saw something about him in one
of the picture-papers to-day, when I was having my hair cut. Oh, I know!
He'd left London, and letters weren't going to be forwarded. Didn't he
tell you?" he asked as his aunt crossed the room in concern.

Lady Poynter's jaw fell in affronted indignation. Lady Maitla