"What date did you say?" she inquired, abruptly breaking in on a further explanation. The reply brought a look of disappointment to her face. "We can't come," she said flatly. "We're leaving on Saturday this week for Washington to be gone till the thirtieth. Important business, Con says." Mrs. Smith-Parvis thought quickly. Washington, eh? "Could you come on Friday night of this week, Mrs. McFad-_dan_?" "We could," said the other. "Don't you worry about Con cooking up an excuse for not coming, either. He does just about what I tell him." "Splendid!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis, arising. "Friday at 8:30." "Have plenty of fish," said Mrs. McFaddan gaily. "Fish?" faltered the visitor. "It's Friday, you know." Greatly to Mrs. Smith-Parvis's surprise,--and in two or three cases, irritation,--every one she asked to meet the McFaddans on Friday accepted with alacrity. She asked the Dodges, feeling confident that they couldn't possibly be had on such short notice,--and the same with the Bittinger-Stuarts. They _did_ have previous engagements, but they promptly cancelled them. It struck her as odd,--and later on significant,--that, without exception, every woman she asked said she was just dying for a chance to have a little private "talk" with the notorious Mr. McFaddan. People who had never arrived at a dinner-party on time in their lives, appeared on Friday at the Smith-Parvis home all the way from five to fifteen minutes early. The Cricklewicks were not asked. Mr. Smith-Parvis remembered in time that the Irish hate the English, and it wouldn't do at all. Mr. McFaddan and his wife were the last to arrive. They were so late that not only the hostess but most of her guests experienced a sharp fear that they wouldn't turn up at all. There were side glances at the clock on the mantel, surreptitious squints at wrist-watches, and a queer, unnatural silence while the big clock in the upper hall chimed a quarter to nine. "Really, my dear," said Mrs. Dodge, who had the New York record for tardiness,--an hour and three-quarters, she claimed,--"I can't understand people being late for a dinner,--unless, of course, they mean to be intentionally rude." "I can't imagine what can have happened to them," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis nervously. "Accident on the Subway, no doubt," drawled Mr. Bittinger-Stuart, and instantly looked around in a startled sort of way to see if there was any cause for repenting the sarcasm. "Where is Stuyvesant?" inquired Mrs. Millidew the elder, who had arrived a little late. She had been obliged to call a taxi-cab at the last moment on account of the singular defection of her new chauffeur,--who, she proclaimed on entering, was to have his walking papers in the morning. Especially as it was raining pitchforks. "He is dressing, my dear," explained Stuyvesant's mother, with a maternal smile of apology. "I should have known better," pursued Mrs. Millidew, still chafing, "than to let him go gallivanting off to Long Island with Dolly."