‘But we hope to win a favour from _you_. The subalterns of the regiment are getting up a party for Wednesday, and we want to know if you will condescend to play hostess for us? We mean to be original,’ Lord Rex hurried on, not giving Dinah time to speak and refuse. ‘Instead of having a humdrum dance or dinner on terra-firma, we mean to charter a yacht--the _Princess_, now lying in Guernsey harbour--and carry all the nicest-looking people in the island out to sea.’ Dinah’s eyes gave him a look of momentary but severe disapproval. ‘For this a hostess is imperatively needed. Chaperonage, in its most venerable form, we can command. I’ve been spending the forenoon, I give you my word I have, in paying court to old ladies. Miss Tighe smiles on our project. The Archdeaconess does not frown. Of course we have Mrs. Verschoyle. But we want a great deal more than venerable chaperons. We want a young and charming lady to do the honours for us. Mrs. Arbuthnot, we want you!’ Now Dinah’s nature held as little commonplace vanity as could well fall to woman’s share: through commonplace vanity had Lord Rex never, at this juncture, won her to say ‘Yes.’ From pleasure, so-called, she had shrunk, more than ever, since the taste she got of pleasure at the rose-show--yes, during the very hours when, with rash strategy, she had been planning to act a part in Gaston Arbuthnot’s world, among Gaston’s friends. But every human being, given a wide enough scope, must end by justifying the cynic’s aphorism. The resisting powers of the best man, of the best woman living, have their price, so far as insignificant mundane matters are concerned. No need to seek far for poor sore-hearted Dinah’s price! Whispers of the projected yachting party had, for several days past, reached her, chiefly in fragments of talk between her husband and the other boarders in Miller’s Hotel. She knew that Gaston was an invited guest. She had an impression, based on air, and yet, like many a jealous fear, not all foundationless, that Linda Thorne was to be the quasi-hostess, the graceful presiding influence of the hour. ‘Me!--you ask me?’ she faltered, sensible of a blinding rush of temptation, and not lifting her eyes from the canvas where she had now effaced the last trace of Lord Rex’s handiwork. ‘I should think others would be more suitable. I should think,’ the blood forsook her lips as she suggested the name, ‘that Mrs. Thorne----’ ‘Oh, we have decided, all of us, against Linda,’ said Lord Rex, with his usual cool sincerity. ‘Mrs. Thorne is the nicest woman going, on shore.’ ‘Of that I am convinced.’