Suddenly the girl turned and looked into her partner’s eyes. “Derry,” said Rosemary Chase, “I’ve known you a heap of years.” “That’s right,” said Derry Peruke. “Ever since you were sweet seven and I was a beastly fifteen.” The tall, dark girl looked away. “I don’t remember you being beastly,” she said. “Never mind. Seventeen years ought to beget an understanding.” “They have,” said Derry Peruke. The two danced the length of the great chamber without a word, the man knowing what was coming and the woman wondering whether he had an idea. As they turned— “My only husband,” said Rosemary, “is in love with your wife.” “Yes,” said Peruke quietly. “That’s half the truth.” “D’you mean that, Derry?” The man nodded. “My dear,” he said, “so far as Virginia’s concerned, the sun, moon and stars rise and set between Roger’s shoulder-blades.” “Well, what on earth,” said his partner, “are we to do? Between you and me and the joker I rather like Roger. He has his faults, but——” “You must call him off,” said Derry. “Virginia’s a very good girl. He’s enticed her away.” “Rot,” said Rosemary. “She’s been trying to get him for months. Never mind. Don’t let’s scrap about it. The truth is they’ve both played with the hive, and now we’re stung.” Peruke glanced down the gallery. “Where are they gone?” he said. Rosemary shrugged her white shoulders. “Probably to drive round the Park.” “And a very good idea—if you want to talk. Let’s do the same.” Rosemary Chase hesitated. Then— “Right-oh, Derry,” she said. The fact that the Perukes’ limousine was not to be found argued that Rosemary’s assumption was well founded. Her coupé, however, was waiting. . . . “Shall I drive? Or will you?” “As you please,” said Derry. The girl stepped into the car and slid to the driver’s seat. As her companion followed— “That’s all to-night, Mason,” she cried to the chauffeur without. “Very good, madam.” A moment later the car was stealing out of St. James’s. . . . Presently it swung westward at an increased speed. The turmoil of the day was over, and the ways were empty and silent under the high stars. Once in a while another car sang by or a waggon lumbered, but for the most part man and his works had yielded possession to Fantasy, who had done all things well. The stage of London Town was set for a masque. Substance was gone, and Shadow was up in his seat: the streets had become dim, monstrous lanes that led to Mystery, paved with the sheen of silver, hung with a sable arras behind which Echo hid: gardens were swollen to parks, and parks to kingdoms: Harlequin was abroad. “How can I call him off?” said Rosemary suddenly. “Virginia’s got my whistle.” Derry regarded the end of his cigarette. “I’ll speak to Virginia,” he said, “if you’ll tell me what to say.” “How can I do that?” “You’re a woman,” said Derry doggedly. “I’m not Virginia,” said Rosemary. “And only Virginia knows how she wants her gruel.”