“Man-handle her, more like,” put in the faithful Greek chorus. George stifled another groan in his wine-glass. The last time he had encountered her, Monica had handled him, with a hose-pipe, causing him to dance at her commands as madly as any dervish on the front lawn of her house half an hour before the ceremony, on pain of having his wedding garments drenched, what time the wedding-guests stood about in the background feebly beating their breasts; and all because he had bestowed a brotherly tug at the thick plait which hung down her back—a thing to George’s ideas that was almost inevitable etiquette in the presence of a flapper. George had singularly few pleasant recollections of Monica. Mr. Doyle seemed to have caught something of the spirit of George’s apprehensions. He groaned faintly and ran a hand through his long black hair. “You don’t mean—you don’t mean that your sister is anything like——?” He paused. “Oh, no!” he said with decision. “You must put her off. Remember, Dawks might come down for another week-end, and then there’d be three in the place at a time. Duffley couldn’t stand it. The whole village would vanish in a cloud of blue smoke, and we with it. You must put her off, Cynthia.” “Are we,” Laura inquired carefully of her sister, “are we, do you think, being insulted, Dawks? Are we being insulted by this wretched Sein Feiner you’re trying to smuggle into the family?” An apprehensive look appeared on Cynthia’s face. She loved the sisters, and she loved to see them ragging; but she did not love the idea of their ragging across her dining-room table. Help came from an unexpected quarter. Dora, who had been unwontedly silent during the last half-hour, smiled lazily at her sister. “When are you going to grow up, Lawks?” she asked gently. Nobody but herself could have posed such a question and retired unscathed. As it was, Laura was half out of her chair before she sank back feebly, turning incredulous eyes up to the ceiling. “The woman’s nerve’s all gone,” she murmured in a faint voice. “She’s got soft. It’s young love, I suppose. She’ll be asking people to call her Miss Howard soon. Well, Heaven preserve me from ever getting engaged, that’s all!” “On behalf of the sex,” remarked Mr. Doyle piously, “which I so unworthily represent, Amen!” Laura’s pose altered abruptly, and her eyes sparkled with battle, but before she could translate her feelings into action, Guy, catching a frantic signal from his wife’s eyes, interposed with a change of subject. “Cheer up, George,” he said hastily. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’d committed a murder, and couldn’t decide what to do with the body.” “I think he’s just seen a ghost, and is being tactful about it,” said Laura, her attention successfully diverted. George, roused abruptly from his meditations concerning frogs and hose-pipes, smiled wanly. “Me? I’m all right,” he muttered.