riages are----" she began.

"Made in heaven. I know," broke in Patricia, "but you try wearing
Turkish slippers in London, Miss Wangle, and you'll soon want to go
back to the English boots. It's silly to make things in one place to
be worn in another; they never fit."

Mrs. Craske-Morton coughed portentously.

"Really, Miss Brent," she exclaimed.

Whenever conversation seemed likely to take an undesirable turn, or she
foresaw a storm threatening, Mrs. Craske-Morton's "Really, Mr.
So-and-so" invariably guided it back into a safe channel.

"But do they?" persisted Patricia. "Can you, Mrs. Morton, seriously
regard marriage in this country as a success? It's all because
marriages are made in heaven without taking into consideration our
climatic conditions."

Miss Wangle had lost the power of speech. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was
staring at Patricia as if she had been something strange and unclean
upon which her eyes had never hitherto lighted. In the eyes of little
Mrs. Hamilton, a delightfully French type of old lady, there was a
gleam of amusement. Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe was the first to recover the
power of speech.

"Is your fiance in the army?"

"Yes," replied Patricia desperately. She had long since thrown over
all caution.

"Oh, tell us his name," giggled Miss Sikkum.

"Brown," said Patricia.

"Is his knapsack number 99?" enquired Mr. Bolton.

"He doesn't wear one," said Patricia, now thoroughly enjoying herself.

"Oh, he's an officer, then," this from Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe.

"Is he a first or a second lieutenant?" enquired Mrs. Craske-Morton.

"Major," responded Patricia laconically.

"What's he in?" was the next question.

"West Loamshires."

"What battalion?" enquired Miss Wangle, who had now regained the power
of speech. "I have a cousin in the Fifth."

"I am sure I can't remember," said Patricia, "I never could remember
numbers."

"Not remember the number of the battalion in which your fiance is?"
There was incredulous disapproval in Miss Wangle's voice.

"No! I'm awfully sorry," replied Patricia, "I suppose it's very horrid
of me; but I'll go upstairs and look it up if you like."

"Oh please don't trouble," said Miss Wangle icily. "I remember the
dear bishop once saying----"

"And I suppose after dinner you'll go to a theatre," interrupted Mrs.
Mosscrop-Smythe, for the first time in the memory of the oldest guest
indifferent to the bishop and what he had said, thought, or done.