“So I have found you at last, you truant!” she said, in a voice full of satisfaction. It was Lady Chesterwood, the wife of Athelstan Moore. Patricia looked up, half abashed, and held out her hand, scarcely knowing how to greet her old friend under the changed circumstances. But Mamie had heard the whole story of the Montellas’ separation from the Princess, and had the good grace not to refer to the affair. She insisted on taking the girl into a neighbouring tea-shop in order to have a chat, and gossiped away to her heart’s content. Then she suddenly remembered the purpose for which she had come out, and broke off in the middle of her conversation to ask Patricia’s advice. “I meant to call and ask the doctor to come and look at Phyllis—Athelstan’s child, you know; but I have not made up my mind whether to do so or not,” she said, with an expression of doubt. “Athelstan slept in town last night, but I expect him home to dinner; and if he hears that the doctor has been, he will be so frightfully alarmed. He absolutely worships that girl; and if her little finger aches, he immediately makes up his mind that she is going to die. So I never send for the doctor unless it is really necessary; it doesn’t seem worth while to have a fuss for nothing.” “What is the matter with her?” asked Patricia equably. “Nothing serious, I suppose?” “No, only a sore throat; a cold probably. I dare say she will be better to-morrow.” “A sore throat,” repeated Patricia meditatively. “I don’t like anything the matter with the throat. I should send for the doctor if I were you.” “You would? Well then, I think you ought to help me to bear the brunt of Athelstan’s alarm. Come to dinner, and bring your she-dragon with you if you like. You know where we live: the other side of Richmond Park—Ravenscroft Hall. We dine at seven o’clock, but I shall expect you at half-past six. Now”—as Patricia prepared to remonstrate—“I know you are going to put all sorts of objections in the way, but I shall not accept one of them. I will take absolutely no refusal; you _must_ come.” “But, my dear Mamie, how can I?” The girl looked almost bewildered. “To meet the Premier in his own house at dinner, after he has been the means of sending my husband to the Antipodes! Oh, it’s impossible! Can’t you see the irony of it? There can be no friendship between a Montella and Athelstan Moore.” “Nonsense!” exclaimed the Countess, unconvinced. “Richmond is not Downing Street. In our own house we have nothing to do with politics; besides, Athelstan may not put in an appearance after all. Don’t be so absurdly sensitive, Pat; I want you to come.”