And here he was—frightened, for all the world to see. . . I say ‘all the world.’ Perhaps I’m wrong. I saw it as clear as daylight, but then I know my man. It was so grievous, Betty. The impulse to go and touch him and talk about something else was almost irresistible. Anything on earth_—anything _to drive that hunted look out of his eyes. . . . But I had to sit impotently by, pretending to read. I feel I must do something, but what can I do? I wish to God you were here. I can’t trust myself to write more than I have about his wife. You’ll find her and her future in the New Testament. ‘Where their worm dieth not. . . .’_ The hotel was crowded, but Joan and her uncle and aunt kept to themselves. The Carey Belows, however, were soon in the thick of things. Within three days the lady had established a Court of which the most favoured members were married men. Peregrine danced with their wives, waited outside the hairdresser’s, reserved tables and cabs, and was reviled night and morning for his pains. Joan was spared the spectacle of the daily drubbings, because those rites were always performed in secret, but she had pieced together the rubric of Peregrine’s life, and to fill such gaps as there were was only too simple. The man’s demeanour alone . . . Peregrine hangdog! Joan’s blood boiled. Besides, she had a maid, and so had Mrs. Below. As luck would have it, both hailed from Camden Town. The rest was easy. The rubric was hideously verified, monstrously annotated. Joan began to see red. * * * * * “What have you done about your dress?” “D’you mean for to-night?” said Peregrine. Mrs. Carey Below sat back in her chair. “What d’you think I mean?” she said. “My dress for the dance, of course. It was very stupid of me.” “No, not stupid,” said Mrs. Below. “Ill-mannered. Rather than take the trouble to use your brain, you’ll let me spoon-feed it. Never mind. What have you done?” “I haven’t done anything,” said Peregrine, “so far. But——” “Why not?” “Well, it’s not till to-night, dear. I suppose Pickford can knock me out something this afternoon.” “Does it occur to you that I may need Pickford’s services—this afternoon?” Peregrine waved a desperate hand. “If you want them you’ll have them, of course. I only meant——” “You’re very kind,” said his wife, with a metallic laugh. “D’you really mean that I can make use of my own maid?” She tapped the floor with her foot. “Of course, this is too handsome. Never mind. Supposing I am so reckless as to accept your offer—what are you going to do about your dress?” “I won’t go,” said Peregrine. “I don’t want to go. Masked balls aren’t much in my line, and——” “I never knew any entertainment that was,” said Mrs. Below sweetly. “Not to put too fine a point upon it, you’re about the most effective wet blanket I’ve ever seen.” “I realize that,” said Peregrine bitterly. “That’s largely why I don’t want to go.”