from town this morning in honour of his
guests, enters the room. "What is the matter?" he asks, looking at
Eleanor's wistful face.

"I am not going to Mrs. Mounteagle's party," she says.

"Well, never mind. You can send your frock round," he cries jokingly,
"and ask her to put it on a chair with a label: 'This is what Mrs.
Roche would have worn had she been here.'"

But his chaff was received in silence. Then he notices for the first
time the red rims round her eyes.

"Why, little woman, you have been crying!"

"Yes," murmurs Eleanor, "I have quarrelled with Giddy."

Then between them the three explain as best they can what has happened.

Philip is deeply interested.

"It was all our mistake," whimpers Mrs. Grebby. "We are that sorry; we
wouldn't 'ave come. We really didn't guess what an upset it would
make--parting friends, and bringing trouble on our darling."

"Do not regret it," says Mr. Roche, taking her hand. "Such friends are
not worth having, and Eleanor is well rid of them."

Secretly he blesses the Grebbys for their timely appearance, and
resolves to write to Erminie and inform her of the fact.

"We are goin' back this morning," continues Mrs. Grebby. "Harriet
expects us, and is reserving a front room in her lodging house. There,
dearie," as Eleanor protests, "don't take on; we'd best go."

"Yes, Ma's right, my girl; Ma's always right," adds Mr. Grebby, with an
admiring glance at his wife.

There are more tears before the final parting, when Eleanor watches
them drive away with her husband, who has promised to escort them to
town, and put them safely in a cab.

"Mind you see they go comfortably to Cousin Harriet's," she says before
he leaves. "No wandering about seeking omnibuses, carrying bags, and
leading Rover."

They wave farewell. Giddy sees them from her window driving down the
terrace.

"My words have carried good weight," she thinks. "Eleanor has shunted
those objectionable bumpkins after all."

When they were gone Eleanor puts on her hat and cloak, and sallies
forth in the chill wintry air.

She enters the telegraph office, and addresses a form to Carol Quinton:

"Don't go to G.'s party this afternoon. Come to Lyndhurst instead.--E."

Then she walks back up the hill, a strange thrill of exhilaration
rushing over her.

"Good-looking men at her parties," she says to herself. "Carol has
promised to come early, has he? We shall see."

* * * *