George fled, growling. George was one of those absurdly out-of-date people who prefer their women-kind to leave unsaid those things that ought not to be said. George _was_ ridiculous. It was fortunate that George took his leisure while he might. Apart from the bother of an awkward journey to a place called Manstead the next morning to retrieve his car in time to drive Dora and Mr. Doyle up to London in it for the opening of the new Jollity revue (the railway station would certainly be watched, George had had it carefully impressed upon him), there was yet another blow coming. It came at about half-past nine. There was a ring at the front door, and, unlike Mr. Priestley, George started guiltily. George was really not enjoying life very much in these days. Knowing his sister, he heaved himself reluctantly out of his chair and went to answer the ring. “Hullo, George,” said Guy’s voice. “Here’s a couple of visitors to see you, Monica and Alan. Cynthia has turned us out of the house. Can you entertain us?” “Oh, yes,” said the unhappy George. “Oh, rather.” “Hullo, George,” said Monica brightly. “Hullo,” said George with a ghastly smile. “Er—hullo, Alan.” “Hullo,” said Alan, a somewhat stout young man of fourteen. The conversation then lapsed. “Do you entertain us here, George?” Monica asked with interest. “If so, bring the piano out, too, and we’ll make an evening of it.” “Oh, sorry,” George mumbled, and stood aside to let these most unwelcome visitors enter. He closed the front door softly upon all hope and led the way to the drawing-room. The visitors stood upon the threshold of the drawing-room and looked inside with interest. George was improving as an entertainer, they felt. Even George forgot his sorrow for the moment too. For it appeared that Dora and her fiancé had not heard the door-bell. Indeed, unless they were trying to show off, it was quite evident that they had not. It seemed a pity to spoil such an idyllic scene, but Alan Spence did so. He spoilt it with a guffaw. Alan’s guffaw might have been guaranteed to spoil any idyllic scene. It was not a taking guffaw. “Oh-oh-ah-hoo!” guffawed Alan. Dora leapt off that portion of Mr. Doyle on which she was reclining as if she had suddenly discovered that it was not her fiancé at all, but a very large hornet. “George, you ass!” she cried, going so red that it seemed as if she must set fire to her frock. “George, you goop!” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, no less fiery. “George, you old idiot!” cackled Guy. “George, you scream!” shrieked Monica, quite untruthfully. Alan contented himself with merely guffawing at George. George sighed. Whatever happened, everybody seemed to blame him. Whatever he did was always wrong. Life was a bleak business. Then he looked at Dora and life did not seem quite so bleak after all. He had never seen either of his sisters embarrassed before. It was a sight which interested George a good deal.