ing this treasure home to dinner.

Then, after expending myself in the preparation of such things as _hors
d'oeuvres_ and iced cocktails and putting on my most becoming frock
Henry has walked in with a veritable monster of a man. You know the
kind I mean. Quite good and God-fearing and all that, but with one of
those dreadful clematis moustaches which cling half over the face,
beginning at the nostrils and curling under the chin, a form which
undulates in the region of the waistcoat, and a slow and pompous
conversation (mainly devoted to the discussion of politics in the
'fifties).

I remember, shortly after one of these visitations, Henry ringing me up
on the 'phone and asking if it was convenient to bring a man home to
dinner that evening.

'What is he like?' I inquired, still smarting under recent experiences,
'has he much moustache--I mean, is he nice?'

Henry paused. 'Oh, all right. I don't know whether you'd care for
him. Perhaps I'd better not----'

'Yes, bring him if you want to, dear,' I conceded. I am not one of
those fussy wives. I like Henry to feel that he can bring a friend
home whenever he likes; but on this occasion I did not make unusual
preparations. After bidding Elizabeth turn the cold meat into curry
and judiciously water the soup to make it enough for four instead of
three, I tidied my hair and descended into the hall to see Henry
helping a man off with his overcoat--and such a man! It was the
dashing, the handsome, the witty Harvey Trevor (political writer on the
_Morning Sun_).

It was too late to back upstairs again and improvise upon my toilette,
for they both looked up and saw me at that moment. So there I stood,
like a stag at bay, with my nose unpowdered (Henry would say that a
stag doesn't powder its nose, but you will know what I mean) wearing my
dullest and most uninspired house-frock, and hurling silent anathemas
at my heartless husband.

You will now understand how useless Henry was as an ally in my
matrimonial plans for Marion. But I was doggedly determined that she
should make some man happy. At last, indeed, it seemed as though my
efforts were to be crowned with success when George Harbinger appeared
on the scene.

He took to her at once and said that she was just the sort of girl his
mother would like. He declared that Marion's oyster patties were
things of pure delight and ought to be eaten to slow music. (Yes, I
always got Marion to make some of her specia