I couldn't."

Further discussion was killed by the noise of the train, and Jenny and
Maurice could only sit speechless, gazing at a long line of damp people,
most of them carrying rain-dabbled bunches of Michaelmas daisies. By the
time Piccadilly was reached Maurice was himself again, full of plans for
to-morrow's birthday party.

"Seeing those people in the Tube with those bluish flowers, what d'ye
call them, made me think of a party I had for my birthday when I lived
with an aunt in the country," said Jenny.

As it was not yet time for her to go into the theater, they turned aside
into the Monico and drank Quinquina Dubonnet while the final
arrangements were being made for the party.

"Now, who exactly is coming?" asked Maurice.

"Irene, if she's well enough, and Elsie Crauford, who isn't bad, but
who's got to be told off sometimes, and Madge Wilson, who you haven't
met, but she's a pretty girl, and Maud Chapman and perhaps Gladys West.
Oh, and can't I bring Lilli Vergoe? She's a bit old--you know--but she's
a nice girl and I used to know her when I was little."

"Right," said Maurice. "That makes seven. Then there'll be me and
Castleton and Cunningham and Ronnie Walker and probably one or two odd
ones'll drop in. You'll turn up about four--eh? It's lucky your birthday
comes on a Sunday. Must you go now? All right, my sweet. Till to-morrow.
By Jove, we'll have a great time, won't we?"

"Rather," said Jenny.

Then just as she prepared to cross to the other side of Piccadilly, from
the island on which they were standing, Maurice called her back.

"Jenny, darling, I am forgiven, aren't I?"

"Of course."

She looked back before she turned the corner into Regent Street and
waved to him. He sighed and went off very happy to meet Castleton for
dinner.

It was characteristic of Jenny that she issued her invitations very
coldly. Most girls grew enthusiastic over such events, but Jenny did not
believe in "showing herself up" by demonstrations of delight.

"Coming to tea with that friend of mine to-morrow?" she asked Madge
Wilson.

"Of course I am, duck, I'd love it," said Madge, a round-faced,
fluffy-haired girl, pretty, but always apt to be mistaken for somebody
else.

"It's nothing to rave over," said Jenny. "It's in a studio something
like your mother's shop. But there's a jolly fine piano and I daresay it
won't be bad."

"I shall love it," said Madge.

"Well, don't wave too many flags."

To the othe