"Nothing extenuate, everything set down in malice!" said he. "The devil and _The Bittern_ are much obliged to you. It is the honest truth that makes his work so easy for him. We are of a trade in more senses than one. Now tell me, can't we exchange celebrities? I'll give you my names, and you shall give me yours. I suppose all the world is here to-night?" "All the world--and somebody else's wife!" she said quickly, and the devil rubbed his hands. "But that is the rub--we can't know who they all are till twelve o'clock, and my idea is that a good many of them will decamp before they are forced to reveal themselves. Least seen, soonest mended." "Then we shall have to invent them!" he said. "The very form of invitation must lead to a good deal of promiscuity. Can you tell me which is Lady Scilly? She at least is sure to be here." "Naturally! Wasn't it she who discovered George Vero-Taylor and made him the fashion, you know?" "Do you suppose he was particularly obliged to her for digging his family out as well?" "You naughty man! But it was a most extraordinary thing, wasn't it? Delightful, and not too scandalous to use. For the man is really quite harmless, only a frantic _poseur_ and----" "Ah, yes, and posed in London Society for ten years as an unmarried man! Suppose some nice girl had gone and fallen in love with him?" "Ah, but he was careful, as careful as a good _parti_ has to be in the London season. He lent them his books, and guanoed their minds thoroughly, but he always sheered off when they showed signs of taking him seriously." "Chose married women to flirt with, for preference? What does the wife say?" "The wife? So there is a wife! But no one has ever seen her. Perpetual hay-fever, or something of the sort." "That is what Vero-Taylor gives out." "Oh, I don't really think there is anything in--with Lady Scilly, I mean. He is too selfish--they are both too selfish. Those sort of women are like the Leaning Tower, they lean but never fall. It is an alliance of interest, so to speak. He introduces the literary element into her parties, and writes her novel for her, and in return she flatters him and takes his daughter out. Poor girl, she would be quite pretty, if she were properly dressed, but the mediæval superstition, you know--she has to dress like a Monna Somebody or other, so as to advertise his books. I believe she did refuse to have her hair shaved off her forehead _à la Rimini_, but she mostly has to comply----" "Well, I never heard of a man using his daughter as a sandwich-man before. Which is she?" Mrs. Sulphuretta Hydrogen pointed out Ariadne, whose bath-towel was tumbling all over her eyes. "She looks half-starved!" said _The Bittern_ man.