"Yes, that would do very well. Oh, and, Nigel! I find I've been so careless and forgotten all the addresses and lost the cards of people that we used to know. I shall want someone to help me." "Yes, I suppose Mademoiselle won't do." "Oh no, she's no use. I shall engage a typewriter to go through the list with me and send out cards." "Right-o! good idea." He was quite surprised and satisfied, and thought to himself how wise it was of him the other day to ignore the absurd fit of excitement when she had smashed the vases. Certainly she had been better ever since. "You'd like me to help you with the list, wouldn't you, dear?" he said presently. She gave him a sharp look. "I suppose we'd better ask everybody we know to this sort of thing," she said. "Your mother and I are not on the best of terms, I'm afraid. But you must be sure to ask her, and we'll make it up." Nigel thought to himself that really would be only fair, considering that he had practically and ingeniously invented the quarrel on purpose; in order that he could have an excuse to go out when Mary's mother came to see her. But, really, Nigel liked her personally and knew that she liked him, and that she was not without sympathy for anyone who had to live with her daughter. "I suppose you'll want me to ask the Kellynches?" asked Mary, in a rather low voice. "It would look natural if you did. But, really, I have seen so little of them for the last few years that you can please yourself about it." "You've accepted several invitations from them," said Mary, in rather a cutting tone. "Perhaps it would be as well to return them." "I don't think I've ever dined there," said Nigel casually. "Didn't you meet them that night at the Russian Ballet? Don't deny it! I know you all went to supper at the Savoy." "Who's denying it! You know that Denison asked me to supper at the Savoy, and that Madeline Irwin was there, and Mrs. Kellynch." "Quite a nice little _partie carree_," said Mary, unable to keep up her plan of self-control, and speaking in a trembling voice. "Now, Mary, don't be absurd! You know it's hardly usual for a bachelor like Rupert to ask three women or three men to supper!" "I suppose he drove Miss Irwin home?" said Mary, commanding herself as well as she could. "No, he didn't. Why should he? Mrs. Kellynch who is Madeline's intimate friend, naturally drove Miss Irwin home in her car. And Rupert, who lives near here, dropped me. It was some little time ago, by the way, but I remember it quite well. Nice feller Rupert--we ought to ask him, too." "All right, dear." They parted amiably. * * * * * An hour later Mary was going through her lists of cards and addresses with the typewriter when she suddenly said: "Oh, Miss Wilson, I'm writing a sort of story. And it's to be told in a series of letters." "Oh yes."