is rather
rotten. I have news of HER. Your aff. brother Savile.'

"'Darling Felicity, be a perfect angel and let my maid see your mauve
tea-gown. I know you are so good-natured or I wouldn't dare to ask. I am
very anxious about HIM. Oh, why are men always the same? I found out
that the wretch instead of being ill, the other day, had taken that
awful Lucy Winter to a picture-gallery. What a girl! All red hair and
eye-glasses. Let me see you soon. Your devoted friend, Vera Ogilvie.' I
am sure Vera needn't worry. Lucy Winter was evidently wild about F. J.
Rivers last night. I must tell her. What stupid letters! Oh! here's a
new handwriting.

"'98 Half Moon Street, 2 o'clock a.m.--Dear Lady Chetwode, I should be
counting the minutes till 4.30, but they pass too slowly to be counted.
It's thirteen hours and a half, anyhow. I can't believe I shall really
see you again. How eternal yesterday was! Why do the gods follow each
feast day with a fast? By the way, I have a little Romney here so
marvellously like you that you really ought to see it.'" Felicity
smiled. "Steady! Rather a nice handwriting. 'Sincerely yours, Bertie
Wilton.' Very promising. 'P.S. I have left a long space between the
lines so that you should read between them.' Everett, I'll wear my
tailor-made dress this morning and for lunch. The mauve tea-gown at
four. I'm only going to the theatre to-night. Let me see, what is it?
Oh! the St. James's. The white _crepe de chine_. Then, remind me to wire
to the Creepers on the evening of their afternoon to say I have a chill.
Have some gardenias and lilies for the drawing-room, and let me see
them. There's the telephone! I suppose Chetwode has rung me up again."

Then followed a one-sided conversation through the telephone, which was
fixed by the side of the Louis Quinze bed.

"Yes, darling.... Oh, all right.... Didn't he?... I say, you might come
back soon.... I really shouldn't bother about that screen.... What?... I
said screen, not scream.... We have heaps more than we want already....
Oh! and ever so many people are coming this afternoon.... A perfectly
new young man.... What?... Oh, not bad!... Safety in numbers?... Even if
you take the numbers one at a time?... Good-bye."

Savile at lunch was gloomy and taciturn. Absently he had partaken three
times of a certain favourite dish, made of chestnuts and cream,
repeatedly proffered, with _empressement_ and a sort of respectful
sympathy, by Greenstock. Then he push