That the table which was offered them at Claridge’s should lie directly between one presided over by Mrs. Closeley Dore and another at which Mrs. Sheraton Forbes was entertaining two stylish Americans was sheer good fortune. . . . . Virgil and Sarah had the time of their lives. Placidly to browse under their enemies’ noses was delightful enough. The reflection that the more they vented their good humour, the higher must rise the fever of indignation raging on either side, made the two positively festive. . . . When the two Americans asked their hostess the identity of ‘that most attractive couple,’ and seemed surprised to learn that they were not of the Blood Royal, Mrs. Sheraton Forbes’ cup began to overflow. . . . At length— “Ah,” said Pardoner, “the rot’s set in. The tumult and the shouting dies, The Closeleys and the Dores depart. I’ll bet old Chippendale doesn’t last two minutes alone.” “Got it in one,” said Sarah. “She’s up. Her guests haven’t finished, but she hasn’t seen that. She’s ordering coffee in the lounge. I’m afraid she’s terribly upset.” “Good,” said Virgil. “And we’ve shortened ‘Slam It’s’ life. When I called you ‘darling’ just now, I thought she was going to founder. Incidentally, I said it very well, didn’t I?” “Like a professional,” said Miss Vulliamy. “You must have said it before.” “Never, darling.” “O-o-oh,” said Sarah. “Any way, you needn’t say it now. The audience has dispersed.” “But it comes so natural.” Sarah tilted her chin. “We are not amused,” she said stiffly. “And now to business. We’d better be married about the end of the month. What about the twenty-fifth?” Virgil consulted a note-book. “Can’t be done,” he said. “I’m playing polo. I can manage the twenty-fourth.” “Don’t be a fool,” said his fiancée. “What about the honeymoon?” After a lot of argument, Pardoner agreed to waive the polo, on the understanding that the wedding-trip was restricted to fourteen days. “Well, that’s that,” said Sarah. “Now then, where shall it be? I may say that I insist upon a church.” A church was at last selected and Pardoner promised to make the necessary arrangements. “The next thing,” said Miss Vulliamy, “is where to go. What about Dinard?” “As you please,” said Virgil. “I suppose that’s where Fulke’s going,” he added carelessly. Sarah shook her sweet head. “Not till the first,” she replied. “Which brings us to June.” “August,” corrected Virgil. “August. July—August—Sept——” “June Townshend,” said Sarah shortly. Pardoner started and dropped his cigarette. “What about her?” he said uneasily. “She wouldn’t like Dinard. She’s a—a clergyman’s daughter.” Sarah bowed before a little gust of laughter. Then— “Have you written to her?” she demanded. “Er, no. Not yet. I mean, it’s a delicate matter.” “Virgil,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Unless you write to her to-day, I won’t marry you.” “But——”