'Dick Farnborough has been complaining that since he smashed his motor all existence has become disorganized. I always feel'--the hostess addressed herself to the minister and the pearls--'don't you, that one ought to stretch a point for people who have to go about in cabs?' As Haycroft began a disquisition on the changes in social life initiated by the use of the motor-car, Mrs. Freddy floated away. Borrodaile, looking after her, remarked, 'It's humane of my sister-in-law to think of making allowances. Most of us gratify the dormant cruelty in human nature by keeping an eagle eye on the wretched late ones when at last they _do_ slink in. Don't you know'--he turned to Lady John--'that look of half-resentful interest?' 'Perfectly. Every one wants to see whether these particular culprits wear their rue with a difference.' 'Or whether,' Borrodaile went on, 'whether, like the majority, they merely look abject and flustered, and whisper agitated lies. Personally I have known it to be the most interesting moment of the evening.' What brought Mrs. Fox-Moore's plight forcibly home to Mrs. Freddy was seeing Vida leave her own animated group to join her sister. Mrs. Freddy made her way across the room, stopping a moment to say to Freddy as she passed-- '_Do_ go and make conversation to Lady Whyteleafe.' 'Which is Lady Whyteleafe?' drawled Freddy. 'Oh, you _always_ forget her! What _am_ I to do with you? She's the woman with the pearls.' 'Not that cross-looking----' 'Sh! Yes, darling, that's the one. She's only looking like that because you aren't talking to her;' and Mrs. Freddy overtook Vida just as she reached the Desert Island where Mrs. Fox-Moore stood, looking seaward for a sail. A few moments later, after ringing for dinner, Mrs. Freddy paused an instant, taking in the fact that Lady Whyteleafe hadn't been made as happy by Mr. Tunbridge's attentions as his wife had prophesied. No, the angry woman with the pearls, so far from being intent upon Freddy's remarks, was levelling at Mrs. Freddy the critical eye that says, 'Now I shall see if I can determine just how miserably conscious you are that dinner's unpardonably late, everybody starving, and since you've only just rung, that you have at least eight minutes still to fill up before you'll hear that you are "served."' Lady Whyteleafe leaned against the back of the little periwinkle damask sofa, and waited to see Mrs. Freddy carry off these last minutes of suspense by an affectation of great good spirits. But the lady under the social microscope knew a trick worth two of that. She could turn more than one mishap to account. 'Oh, Freddy! Oh, Lady Whyteleafe! I've just gone and said the most awful, dreadful, appalling thing! Oh, I should like to creep under the sofa and die!' 'What's up?' demanded Mr. Freddy, with an air of relief at being reinforced. 'I've been talking to Vida Levering and that funereal sister of hers.'