“Of course,” said Giles gallantly. “Listen. If ever you hear someone bleat, don’t come and dine here with me until—until the fight’s over.” Her husband drew himself up. “My darling,” he said, “I give you my precious word.” He hesitated. “And—and you’ld put me off, wouldn’t you, if—if anything looked like displacing _Baladeuse_?” Katharine nodded. * * * * * Five crowded weeks had slipped by. The Courts were over: Ascot had come and gone: another shining Henley had floated into the past. People were beginning to collect their wraps. The carnival was nearly done. Of late, the Festivals had not met nearly so much. The reason for this is illuminating. Each was declining a number of invitations. Since, however, they never discussed their engagements, Katharine imagined that Giles was still ‘going strong,’ while the latter, lying wakeful in bed, pictured his wife dancing night after night into the dawn. Fantasy did not stop there. They had made two of the house-party gathered at Castle Charing a fortnight before. The weather had been inviting, and Katharine and Pat Lafone had been inseparable. When they were not playing golf, they were out in the car. On two out of three evenings they had been badly late for dinner, arriving at the table breathless and simultaneously. And Pat was twenty-seven and full of life. He was also most attractive in looks and deeds. . . . Then the party had dispersed, and two days later Giles had passed the pair, riding together in the Row. . . . His wife had waved, and Pat had shouted joyfully, but Festival had winced. There is an old superiority of horse over foot which, other things being equal, may make itself felt. It is, I suppose, traditional. The knight went mounted. It may, of course, be merely a matter of inches. The ability of the equestrian to look down upon such as go walking is not to be denied. His is a commanding position—of which the pedestrian may be ridiculously conscious. Wishing very much that he had been riding, Giles told himself not to be a fool and, on reaching the Club, rang up Madrigal Chicele and asked her to lunch. Afterwards, he drove her to Hurlingham, passing Katharine upon the road. Madrigal had been very civil at Castle Charing. Her husband had been killed in the War, after a month of wedlock. That was six years ago, and if Mrs. Chicele yet mourned, she mourned in secret. She was extremely good-looking and had a delightful laugh. . . . The next day, the four met in Bond Street—with two open taxis between them. They exchanged appropriate banter. Katharine’s and Giles’ contributions were suspiciously bright. The following Thursday morning Captain and Mrs. Festival received two several communications by the same post. _Wednesday Evening._ _Dear Gill_,