"Sit down here," called Mrs. Scudaway readily, creating a general shift of chairs. The two men hesitated a moment, nervousness apparent in both, and then sat down quickly. The Englishman was next Mrs. Scudaway. "What were you doing out in the rain?" she asked after the order for drinks had been taken. "Hurrying to get out of it," he said with evasive good humour, "and thinking how much nicer your fogs are than ours," he added quickly. "Anybody come over with you?" asked the bore, agreeably. "No, they're playing bridge over at Mrs. Thursdale's and that lets me out. Beastly headache, too. Got out for a breath of air." The silence that followed this observation seemed to call for further explanations. "Miss Thursdale retired soon after dinner, wretchedly under the weather. That rather left me adrift, don't you know. I'm not playing bridge this year." "You're not? Why not, pray?" "Chiefly because of last year. My Mercedes came on from New York yesterday and I got her out for a spin. Couldn't resist, don't you know. She's working beautifully." "There's one thing about a Mercedes that I don't like--and you don't find it in a Panhard. I've got a Panhard and--" Dobson was saying with all the arrogance of a motor fiend, when Mrs. Scudaway ruthlessly and properly cut him off. "We know all about your Panhard, Dobby. Don't bother. Is Eleanor really ill, Mr. Windomshire?" "I had it from her own lips, Mrs. Scudaway." "Oh, you know what I mean. Is it likely to be serious?" "Really, I can't say. I offered to go and fetch the doctor in my car, but she assured me she'd be all right in the morning. What say, Mr. Dauntless?" "I didn't speak, Mr. Windomshire." "I thought you did." More than one at the table had heard Joe's involuntary chuckle. "I say, Windomshire, what's the name of that pretty governess over at Thursdale's?" asked the busy bore. "Saw her this morning." The Englishman looked down and flecked the ashes from his cigarette before answering. "Miss Courtenay," he responded. "She's a corking pretty girl." Windomshire went through the unnecessary act of flecking ashes again, but said nothing in reply. "Are there any more at home like her?" with a fine chuckle in behalf of his wit. "She's of a very good family, I believe," said Windomshire, looking about helplessly. Mrs. Scudaway caught the look in his eyes and remembered that English gentlemen are not supposed to discuss women outside of their own set. "It must be time for the 'bus," she said. "We're all going in by the 10.10, Mr. Windomshire." "Can't I take some of you over to the station in my car?" "The 'bus is dryer, I think, thank you." She led the way, and the other women followed her upstairs. "We'll be down in time," she called. "I'll take some of you men over in Hardy's machine," volunteered Dauntless. "I've got it out here this week, while he's east." "Ain't you going in, Joe?" demanded Rolfe. "Not to-night. I'm staying overnight with my uncle in Cobberly Road."