“Really, Mrs. Kendal, she isn’t. Not by about eighteen years. Captain Patch looks very young, I quite agree, but as a matter of fact, he’s quite old enough to take care of himself.” “More shame for him,” declared Mumma, not at all viciously, but with that effortless, relentless implacability of hers that always makes one think of a tank in action. “I don’t expect they realize that the way they go about together isn’t very good form,” said Blanchie Kendal brightly and kindly. She is the one whom Mumma often speaks of as “our family peacemaker,” but I doubt if Mrs. Kendal thought it quite fitting that she should peacemake on the subject of Mrs. Harter and Captain Patch. “That will do, dear,” she said, and Blanchie desisted from her charitable attempts at once. The Kendals are all of them rather large young women, but when Mumma says, “That will do,” like that, they seem to shrink into a temporary invisibility. “I think,” said Mrs. Kendal further, “that we shall have to make a move. Will you see if you can find Puppa and the others, Blanchie? I am afraid we ought to make a move.” “So ought we,” said Claire, and in spite of hospitable protests from Leeds and Mrs. Leeds, people began to prepare for departure. Claire, perhaps with a recollection of her tête-à-tête journey with Leeds in his runabout, at once offered to take Mary and her children back to the Manor House if they would spend the evening with us, and Mary agreed. Christopher had already put Mrs. Fazackerly into his two-seater, and Mrs. Harter and Captain Patch were nowhere to be seen. I really felt sorry for Leeds, as I saw the blank expression with which he offered to drive Lady Annabel Bending home. “What a bounder that fellow is!” young Martyn observed pleasantly as the car moved away. “You’ve eaten his salt,” Claire said gravely. She looked very austere and high-minded as she said it, but that was probably for the benefit of Martyn--who seemed in no way impressed--and I saw every reason to fear that another volcano was claiming Claire’s inward attention. I knew she would say nothing in front of Sallie and Martyn, but as soon as we got home they dashed upstairs in search of some property connected with the play, and Claire and Mary and I remained together. Then poor Claire’s features relaxed into an expression of desperation. These histrionic transformations in her are largely instinctive, I believe. She herself is never, for an instant, out of her own line of vision. “It has come.” It was useless to ask what had come. I knew and Mary knew. “Has Christopher said anything to you?” I asked. “No. Has he to you?” Claire’s question came like a rapier point, and I was thankful to be able to say no in reply to it. “He is going to marry that little third-rate creature.” Claire spoke with concentrated bitterness. Claire, theoretically, is a democrat. She is also the champion of individual freedom, and she believes in the right of every man or woman to marry for love.