“Exactly.” “Then you were--not quite right. My father said he was sure that--that--yes, that you were certain to be able to convince him that he knew your father.” “Ah!” “I shall ask my mother to send you a card for--but I suppose you are like the rest of us: you need at least a month’s notice?” “I only need a day’s notice, Miss Severn.” “You shall have a week at the least.” “And you can get up your affidavits in the meantime,” suggested Mr. Overton. “I think I shall convince Sir Creighton of my identity without the adventitious aid of affidavits,” said Winwood. “My solicitor--an excellent chap, and so cheap!--says that it is only people who know nothing about the law courts who say that there is no other form of perjury except an affidavit. He once knew a man who made an affidavit that turned out to be true, though no one believed it at the time.” It was at this point that Mr. Shirley came up and took away Winwood to present him to Miss West, explaining that he had arranged his table so that he was to sit next to Miss West. “I hope that he is putting me beside you,” said Mr. Overton with a look of longing that is not strictly according to Plato. He now and again made these lapses. They were very irritating to Amber (she thought). But his hope in regard to the regulation of the table was not destined to be realised for Mr. Shirley brought up to her a young man who was the son of a marquis and a member of the Cabinet as well--Mr. Shirley knew how to choose his guests and how to place them so well. “I have asked Lord Lullworth to sit beside you, Miss Severn,” he said, and immediately went off to welcome the last two of his guests who were coming down the lawn. So that it was to a certain Miss Craythorpe--she was the daughter of the under secretary of the annexation department (Mr. Shirley had reduced the disposal of his guests to an exact science)--that Guy had an opportunity of the remarkable chance offered to him the day before--the chance of backing at a theatre a comedy by a dramatist who had made fourteen consecutive failures at London theatres alone. But although the agent of the actor manager who had just acquired for a considerable sum of money the rights of the new comedy had pointed out to him that it was almost sure to be a success, the fact being that it was beyond the bounds of possibility for any dramatist to make fifteen consecutive failures, he had decided to decline the offer. “I prefer to spend my money myself,” this possible patron of art explained to the young woman as soon as he had settled down in his chair beside her. Miss Craythorpe thought him very amusing and even went the length of saying so: she had been told that Mr. Overton had at least half a million of a fortune. She had also heard it mentioned casually that he was not given to spending his money. This information was stimulating.