“Charwomen. Relays of them—when all the servants have gone. And the silver at the Bank because you’ve no one to clean it, and poor Nell in tears counting your shirts, and answering the back-door yourself. . . . At least, a flat has only one door.” David addressed himself to Eleanor. “My sweet,” he said, “not even for an undress wedding will I give you a house. In your own interest——” Here a salted almond hit him upon the nose. Mrs. Willoughby regarded the ceiling. “Ten sovereigns to one,” she murmured. “Dear me, this is very fortunate. David, how much was that hat you didn’t like?” “What, not ‘The Lost Chord’?” “That’s right.” “Nine and a half guineas,” said Herrick. He turned to Crispin. “Nine and a half guineas for a piece of rope—wound round and round—painted red and white—with a chunk of wood on each end.” “But how ravishing,” said Crispin. “Was it real rope, or only imitation?” “It was a gem,” said Madge. “We’ll get it to-morrow, David, before we look at the cooks.” The conference was typical and one of several. The four fleeted the time pleasantly, hunting in couples, conferring perhaps twice a week. Once Madge had protested that the arrangement was false, that her jest was being carried too far. The betrothal, she hinted, was being shorn of its rights; the privacy of courtship was being invaded; halcyon days were being stolen away. Her objection was tumultuously quashed. With one consent Eleanor and David insisted that all was well. They declared that they were not children, that chances of present discord were being eliminated, that future harmony was being assured. They also expressed their gratitude in certain terms. Madge was reassured. Crispin, being a man, said and thought nothing at all. And, as is always the way, some people, who were not concerned, said and looked volumes. This was inevitable. The engagement had attracted attention to a notable pair. Miss Cloke had been bridesmaid to Royalty, was immensely liked and of great beauty. Herrick had played polo for England, and was known and respected on the Turf. His beautiful filly, Cretonne, was fancied for the Derby. Her victory would undoubtedly be cordially received. As for the Willoughbys, they were celebrities pure and simple. They had been conspicuous as man and maid. Captain Willoughby, bachelor, was a V.C. Miss Madge Dinwiddy had been the darling of New York. The two had married for love and nothing else. Two personalities—one brilliant and the other steadfast—had made two simultaneous mutual appeals, each of them too powerful to be withstood. Before the respective onslaughts Crispin Willoughby and Madge had gone down incontinently. Mayfair had roared its approval then and there, and its approval had never waned.