Mrs. Craske-Morton always liked her guests to tell her when they were not likely to be in to dinner. "It saves the servants laying an extra cover," she would explain. As a matter of fact it saved Mrs. Craske-Morton preparing for an extra mouth. If Patricia had hurled a bomb into the middle of the dining-table, she could not have attracted to herself more attention than by her simple remark that she was not dining at Galvin House on the morrow. Everybody stopped eating to stare at her. Miss Sikkum missed her aim with a trifle of apple charlotte, and spent the rest of the evening in endeavouring to remove the stain from a pale blue satin blouse, which in Brixton is known as "a Paris model." It was Miss Wangle who broke the silence. "How interesting," she said. "We shall quite miss you, Miss Brent. I suppose you are working late." The whole table waited for Patricia's response with breathless expectancy. "No!" she replied nonchalantly. "I know," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her even tones, and wagging an admonitory finger at her. "You're going to a revue, or a music-hall." "Or to sow her wild oats," added Mr. Bolton. Then some devil took possession of Patricia. She would give them something to talk about for the next month. They should have a shock. "No," she replied indifferently, attracting to herself the attention of the whole table by her deliberation. "No, I'm not going to a revue, a music-hall, or to sow my wild oats. As a matter of fact," she paused. They literally hung upon her words. "As a matter of fact I am dining with my fiancé." The effect was electrical. Miss Sikkum stopped dabbing the front of her Brixton "Paris model." Miss Wangle dropped her pince-nez on the edge of her plate and broke the right-hand glass. Mr. Cordal, a heavy man who seldom spoke, but enjoyed his food with noisy gusto, actually exclaimed, "What?" Almost without exception the others repeated his exclamation. "Your fiancé?" stuttered Miss Wangle. "But, dear Miss Brent," said Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, "you never told us that you were engaged." "Didn't I?" enquired Patricia indifferently. "And you don't wear a ring," interposed Miss Sikkum eagerly. "I hate badges of servitude," remarked Patricia with a laugh. "But an engagement ring," insinuated Miss Sikkum with a self-conscious giggle. "One is freer without a ring," replied Patricia. Miss Wangle's jaw dropped. "Marriages are----" she began. "Made in heaven. I know," broke in Patricia, "but you try wearing Turkish slippers in London, Miss Wangle, and you'll soon want to go back to the English boots. It's silly to make things in one place to be worn in another; they never fit." Mrs. Craske-Morton coughed portentously. "Really, Miss Brent," she exclaimed. Whenever conversation seemed likely to take an undesirable turn, or she foresaw a storm threatening, Mrs. Craske-Morton's "Really, Mr. So-and-so" invariably guided it back into a safe channel.