. It was certainly not for being intelligent."

For a minute Bowen did not reply. He was apparently lost in thought.
Presently he turned to Patricia.

"Look here," he said, "by half-past five to-morrow afternoon I'll have
found a solution. Now can't we talk about something pleasant?"

"There is nothing pleasant to talk about when Aunt Adelaide is looming
on the horizon. She's about the most unpleasant thing next to
chilblains that I know."

"I suppose," said Bowen tentatively, "you couldn't solve the difficulty
by marrying me by special licence."

"Marry you by special licence!" cried Patricia in amazement.

"Yes, it would put everything right."

"I think you must be mad," said Patricia with decision; but conscious
that her cheeks were very hot.

"I think I must be in love," was Bowen's quiet retort. "Will you?"

"Not even to escape Aunt Adelaide's interrogation would I marry you by
special, or any other licence," said Patricia with decision.

Bowen turned away, a shadow falling across his face. Then a moment
after, drawing his cigarette-case from his pocket, he enquired, "Shall
we smoke?"

Patricia accepted the cigarette he offered her. She watched him as he
lighted first hers, then his own. She saw the frown that had settled
upon his usually happy face, and noted the staccatoed manner in which
he smoked. Then she became conscious that she had been lacking in not
only graciousness but common civility. Instinctively she put out her
hand and touched his coat-sleeve.

"Please forgive me, I was rather a beast, wasn't I?" she said.

He looked round and smiled; but the smile did not reach his eyes.

"Please try and understand," she said, "and now will you drive me home?"

Bowen looked at her for a moment, then, getting out of the car, started
the engine, and without a word climbed back to his seat.

The journey back was performed in silence. At Galvin House Gustave,
who was on the look-out, threw open the door with a flourish.

In saying good night neither referred to the subject of their
conversation.

As Patricia entered, the lounge seemed suddenly to empty its contents
into the hall.

"I hope you enjoyed your ride," said Mr. Bolton.

"I hate motoring," said Patricia. Then she walked upstairs with a curt
"Good night," leaving a group of surprised people speculating as to the
cause of her mood, and deeply commiserating with Bowen.

CHAPTER VIII

LORD PETER'S S.O.S.

"The bath i