ht, Mrs. Morton."

Mrs. Craske-Morton always liked her guests to tell her when they were
not likely to be in to dinner. "It saves the servants laying an extra
cover," she would explain. As a matter of fact it saved Mrs.
Craske-Morton preparing for an extra mouth.

If Patricia had hurled a bomb into the middle of the dining-table, she
could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her simple
remark that she was not dining at Galvin House on the morrow.

Everybody stopped eating to stare at her. Miss Sikkum missed her aim
with a trifle of apple charlotte, and spent the rest of the evening in
endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue satin blouse, which
in Brixton is known as "a Paris model." It was Miss Wangle who broke
the silence.

"How interesting," she said. "We shall quite miss you, Miss Brent. I
suppose you are working late."

The whole table waited for Patricia's response with breathless
expectancy.

"No!" she replied nonchalantly.

"I know," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her even tones, and wagging an
admonitory finger at her. "You're going to a revue, or a music-hall."

"Or to sow her wild oats," added Mr. Bolton.

Then some devil took possession of Patricia. She would give them
something to talk about for the next month. They should have a shock.

"No," she replied indifferently, attracting to herself the attention of
the whole table by her deliberation. "No, I'm not going to a revue, a
music-hall, or to sow my wild oats. As a matter of fact," she paused.
They literally hung upon her words. "As a matter of fact I am dining
with my fiance."

The effect was electrical. Miss Sikkum stopped dabbing the front of
her Brixton "Paris model." Miss Wangle dropped her pince-nez on the
edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. Mr. Cordal, a heavy
man who seldom spoke, but enjoyed his food with noisy gusto, actually
exclaimed, "What?" Almost without exception the others repeated his
exclamation.

"Your fiance?" stuttered Miss Wangle.

"But, dear Miss Brent," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, "you never told us
that you were engaged."

"Didn't I?" enquired Patricia indifferently.

"And you don't wear a ring," interposed Miss Sikkum eagerly.

"I hate badges of servitude," remarked Patricia with a laugh.

"But an engagement ring," insinuated Miss Sikkum with a self-conscious
giggle.

"One is freer without a ring," replied Patricia.

Miss Wangle's jaw dropped.

"Mar