Only, don't you see, it isn't that but the
Belgian is what Harry calls a blighter--a beano-blighter; and so is Mrs.
Wyburn, and it doesn't do to have two beano-blighters in the same
party."

"Ah, I see; they'd clash. What _is_ a beano-blighter exactly, Val?"

"A person who blights beanos. Who makes every one a little
uncomfortable, casts a gloom over entertainments--has to be taken in
hand and dealt with separately from the others--doesn't blend, you
know."

"You mean some one who isn't the life and soul of the party?"

"No, I don't. That's almost as bad in its way. In fact, the
life-and-soul-of-the-party person casts almost as great a gloom on the
rest as a blighter."

"Oh dear! Yes, I see."

"We must meet her at the station in the motor. I shall put on my blue
serge and my plain sailor. She mustn't see me in the garden without a
hat, nor in a real one. You do the same, Daphne."

"But my sailor's too large in the head, and that makes it fall over my
eyes, and that gives it a Frenchy look, like _L'Art et la Mode_,"
protested Daphne.

"Stuff it with paper. Here's the _Bystander_."

"Oh, isn't it a pity? There's such a pretty picture of----"

"Oh, don't bother."

Mrs. Wyburn was gracious to-day, and all was going well when, about
half-past five, a telegram, reply paid, was brought. It was addressed to
Harry.

"What shall we do?"

"Why, keep it till he comes. He'll be back to dinner," Romer said.

"Suppose it's something urgent," said Val, seeming a little agitated.
"Don't you think perhaps we ought to open it? He won't mind."

"You can't. It's addressed to Harry," said Romer.

Mrs. Wyburn's quick eyes took in some signs of tension, but she
continued giving them advice about the garden. She thought the flowers
too florid, and was always a little shocked at the extravagant scent and
exuberance of the roses. She seemed to think they should be kept more in
their place--not allowed to climb all over the house, and romp or lean
about the garden doing just what they liked. She had winced in the
drawing-room, relented in the dining-room, and refrained, really, only
in the kitchen, that she had insisted upon seeing. It was the only room
to the decoration of which she gave whole-hearted praise and approval.
The cooking at the Green Gate she admitted to be perfect, without
pretension. In fact, she thought everything in the house a little
overdone, except the mutton.

"I can't think who that wire can be from,"