in order that he could have an excuse to go out when Mary's mother came
to see her. But, really, Nigel liked her personally and knew that she
liked him, and that she was not without sympathy for anyone who had to
live with her daughter.

"I suppose you'll want me to ask the Kellynches?" asked Mary, in a
rather low voice.

"It would look natural if you did. But, really, I have seen so little of
them for the last few years that you can please yourself about it."

"You've accepted several invitations from them," said Mary, in rather a
cutting tone. "Perhaps it would be as well to return them."

"I don't think I've ever dined there," said Nigel casually.

"Didn't you meet them that night at the Russian Ballet? Don't deny it! I
know you all went to supper at the Savoy."

"Who's denying it! You know that Denison asked me to supper at the
Savoy, and that Madeline Irwin was there, and Mrs. Kellynch."

"Quite a nice little _partie carree_," said Mary, unable to keep up her
plan of self-control, and speaking in a trembling voice.

"Now, Mary, don't be absurd! You know it's hardly usual for a bachelor
like Rupert to ask three women or three men to supper!"

"I suppose he drove Miss Irwin home?" said Mary, commanding herself as
well as she could.

"No, he didn't. Why should he? Mrs. Kellynch who is Madeline's intimate
friend, naturally drove Miss Irwin home in her car. And Rupert, who
lives near here, dropped me. It was some little time ago, by the way,
but I remember it quite well. Nice feller Rupert--we ought to ask him,
too."

"All right, dear."

They parted amiably.

* * * * *

An hour later Mary was going through her lists of cards and addresses
with the typewriter when she suddenly said:

"Oh, Miss Wilson, I'm writing a sort of story. And it's to be told in a
series of letters."

"Oh yes."

"Will you please take this down. This is the address: Percy Kellynch,
Esq., 100 Sloane Street. It begins like this: 'Dear Mr. Kellynch----'"
...

CHAPTER X

MASTER CLIFFORD KELLYNCH

Lady Kellynch was in the room she usually chose for sitting in for any
length of time, when her son, Clifford (twelve years old), was at home
for the holidays.

A widow, handsome and excessively dignified, as I have mentioned, with
her prim notions, she was essentially like the old-fashioned idea of an
old maid. As her fine house was very perfectly and meticulously
furnished, she treated the