Mr. Pellew, tacitly admitting the implied impeachment. "It
_is_ rather a jolly shame, when you come to think of it. I'll take it
round to him to-morrow. Gloucester Place, is it--or York Place--end of
Baker Street?... Can't remember the fillah's name to save my life.
Married a Miss Bergstein--rich bankers. Got his card at home, I expect.
However, that's where he lives--York Place. He's a Sir Somebody
Something.... What were you going to say?"

"Oh--nothing.... Only that it would have been very interesting to read
that account. However, Sir Somebody Something must be wanting his
_Quarterly Review_.... Never mind!"

Gwen said:--"What nonsense! He's bought another copy by this time. He
can afford it, if he's married a Miss Bergstein. Bring it round
to-morrow, Percy, to keep Aunt Constance quiet. We shan't take her with
us to see Clo's little boy. We should make too many." Then, in order to
minimise his visit next day, Mr. Pellew sketched a brief halt in
Cavendish Square at half-past three precisely to-morrow afternoon, when
Miss Dickenson could "run her eye" through the disintegration of that
Egyptian King, without interfering materially with its subsequent
delivery at Sir Somebody Something's. It was an elaborate piece of
humbug, welcomed with perfect gravity as the solution of a perplexing
and difficult problem. Which being so happily solved, Mr. Pellew could
take his leave, and did so.

"Didn't I do that capitally, Clo?"

"Do which, dear?"

"Why--making her stop here to see him. Or giving her leave to stop; it's
the same thing, only she would rather do it against her will. I mean
saying we should make too many at Scraps Court, or whatever it is."

"Oh yes--quite a stroke of genius! Gwen dear, what an inveterate
matchmaker you are!"

"Nonsense, Clo! I never...." Here Gwen hung fire for a moment,
confronted by an intractability of language. She took the position by
storm, _more suo_:--"I never _mutchmoke_ in my life.... What?--Well, you
may laugh, Clo, but I never _did_! Only when two fools irritate one by
not flying into each other's arms, and wanting to all the time.... Oh,
it's exasperating, and I've no patience!"

"You are quite sure they do ... want to?"

"Oh yes--I think so. At least, I'm quite sure Percy does."

"Why not Aunt Constance?"

"Because I can't imagine anyone wanting to rush into any of my cousins'
arms--my he-cousins. It's a peculiarity of cousins, I suppose. If any of
mine had been palata