“Sorry if we were tactless, Dawks,” said Guy, “but it really wasn’t our fault, you know.” “Of course it wasn’t. It was George’s. It always is.” “May we come in now, or would you rather we didn’t?” “Guy,” said Dora with feeling, “if you say another single word on that subject, I’ll never speak to you again.” “May my tongue be cut out,” said Guy, and introduced the new-comers. While George carefully avoided every one’s eye, they sorted themselves into seats. “We were to have come on Tuesday,” Monica announced, “but when we saw _The Sunday Courier_ this morning, of course we couldn’t wait till then. We just flew for the first train we could get.” “What rot, Monica,” observed her brother, with proper scorn for this feminine hyperbole. “We could have got here hours ago,” he informed the company, “if she hadn’t wasted half the day packing a lot of rotten clothes.” “So now tell us all about it,” Monica continued serenely. “Cynthia wouldn’t say a single word; can’t imagine why. She said if we wanted to talk about it, we’d got to come over here, because two more words on it to-day would send her raving mad.” “Cinders always was a bit comic,” agreed Alan with brotherly candour. Guy crossed his legs and slid down in his chair. “Go on, Doyle,” he said. “You’re the official historian.” “The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” inquired Doyle cautiously. “Heaven forbid!” said Guy, and winked gently. “I say,” remarked Alan more respectfully, “are you that chap Doyle, who wrote about it in the _Sunday Courier_?” “I am that chap Doyle,” agreed Mr. Doyle with grave dignity. He proceeded to retail a second version of his report to _The Courier_, adding the chief points of the one he had already telephoned through for the next morning’s issue. While he talked George found himself at liberty to study Monica without fear of being observed. Hitherto he had consciously avoided looking at her; now that he did so he could hardly believe that this was the same person, who, little more than two years ago, had caused him to dance before the wedding-guests. She looked completely different. The thick plaits which had been the cause of all the merriment had disappeared and her hair, fair like her sister’s, was cut short about her small head. George was not an admirer of cropped heads on women’s shoulders, but even he could not but admit that Monica’s really didn’t look half bad, considering.