so perverse. Look how they won't wear
black when nothing suits them so well!"

"Won't they? I wonder you don't go into the millinery business. I think
you'd do very well."

"Don't talk rot. I'm only interested as an amateur; it's art for art's
sake. But I _do_ understand frocks. I will say that I think women's
dress is the only thing worth being really extravagant on. Don't you?"

"No, I don't."

They were now proceeding down Bond Street at a pace that the crowd
compelled to be rather leisurely.

"There's Aunt William in her old-fashioned barouche with the grey
horses. It's _such_ a comfort to me, always, to see Mrs. Crofton; it
makes one feel at least there is something stationary in this changeable
world. Who's that boy looking at?--at you? Isn't it the Crofton boy?"

"Yes. Let's stop a minute; I want to speak to him."

Savile, seeing them, crossed the road, and said, before Bertie could
begin--

"Extraordinary weather for the time of--year!"

"Come off the roof!" said Woodville, smiling. "What are you doing in
Bond Street?"

"Oh, only going to Chappell's, the music shop, to get a song. One of
those Sylvia doesn't sing," said Savile, looking straight at him.

"Oh, I know what it is," said Bertie; "it's Pale Hands that Burn, or
Tosti's Good-bye!"

"No, it just isn't."

"Then it's something out of The Telephone Girl or something. Do tell us
what it is. I hate these musical mysteries."

"It's not a mystery at all. It's Home sweet Home," said Savile.

They tried to persuade him to join them, but he walked off.

"Delightful boy," said Bertie, after a moment. "So correct. I'm sure
he's _the_ person at home, and spoilt, and does what he likes with them
all, doesn't he? Of course, he's the person to be friends with if you
want anything fixed up! Well, here we are at Onslow Square. It was jolly
seeing you again. You must come for another longer spin soon. Isn't
Mervyn a good chap? He's so really distinguished that it wouldn't ever
matter what he wore, or where he went, or when. And you'd never _dream_
he was an actor, would you?"

"Not unless you saw him act," said Woodville, getting out.

CHAPTER VII

THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY

Sir James was in one of those heroic moods that were peculiarly alarming
to his valet. He was so abnormally good-tempered, and seemed so
exceedingly elated about something, that it was probable he might
suddenly, in Price's pathetic phrase, turn off nasty, or fly out.