I paused at the carriage-door, and by means of a terrifying cough intimated that I, too, had been invited to The Towers, and, although a stranger and unintroduced, begged leave in the humblest manner possible to assert my right to a seat in the brougham. I was greeted with a friendly smile. "Come in! I expect you are Mr. Carmyle." I admitted guardedly that this was so, and proceeded to install myself in that part of the brougham not already occupied by the lady’s hat. "My name is Constance Damer," said my companion, as the brougham started. "Perhaps you have heard of me?" "No," I replied, "I have not." "Not very well put!" said Miss Damer reprovingly. "I have been abroad for several years," I murmured in extenuation. "I know," said my companion, nodding her head. "You have been building a dam across something in Africa." I accepted this precise summary of my professional career with becoming meekness. Miss Damer continued:-- "And I suppose you are feeling a little bit lost at present." "Yes," I said heartily, "I am." "You should have said ’Not _now_!’" explained my companion gently. I apologised again. "I shall make allowances for you until you find your feet," said Miss Damer kindly. I thanked her, and asked whom I was likely to meet at The Towers. Miss Damer ticked off the names of the party on her small gloved fingers. (Have I mentioned that she was _petite_?) "Mr. Mainwaring and Lady Adela," she said. "You know _them_, of course?" "No. I saw them once on Speech Day at school fifteen years ago. That is all." "Well, they are your host and hostess." "Thank you: I had gathered that," I replied deferentially. "Then Dicky." "Dicky? Who is-- Oh, The Frea-- Yes. Quite so! Proceed!" "What did you call him?" asked Miss Damer, frankly curious. "I--well--at school we used to call him The Freak," I explained. "Men very often never know the Christian names of their closest friends," I added feebly. "Who else?" "There is Hilda Beverley, of course. You have heard of her?" "N--no. Ought I to have done?" Miss Damer’s brown eyes grew quite circular with surprise. "Do you mean to tell me," she asked incredulously, "that Dicky never informed you that he was engaged?" "No. You see," I pointed out, anxious to clear my friend of all appearance of lukewarmness as a lover, "I only met him the other day for the first time in fifteen years, and we naturally had a good deal to tell one another; and so, as it happened--that is--" I tailed off miserably under Miss Damer’s implacable eye. "You are his greatest friend, aren’t you?" she enquired.