So Hobart, well versed in tactics, when Lissa approached him on the subject of Dan and Thurley, managed to switch the conversation on to the information that Mark had danced so poorly his position as premier was threatened and Lissa had better adopt the diet of a Belgian refugee if she still wished to look her best in tailored things! Lissa, ousted for the time being, would depart to vent her wrath on the shoulders of her maid or Mark, who was, in truth, dancing poorly because he was bored and he felt dancing was not a man’s life-work when other things kept whispering themselves to him—and, hang it all, why did a clean cut, wonder girl like Thurley let Lissa pull her around by the nose anyway? In a spirit of half earnest, half flippant revenge for Hobart’s neglect, Thurley sang poorly at a salon concert at which Hobart was the host. She so resorted to Lissa’s mannerisms that Caleb took notes on his cuff for future use. Thurley knew the concert was a failure since she was to be the one to make it a success. She refused to meet Hobart’s disappointed gaze, pretending to be engrossed in listening to a Russian agitator telling of his escape over the frontier. The next morning, when Thurley was debating whether or not it would be convenient to have Dan visit her so soon again, if this summer was to be spent in shocking the natives or, as Caleb had urged, selecting a site for a permanent country home and seeing it well on its way to completion by fall, she lifted the telephone receiver to answer its ring and heard Bliss Hobart’s voice—his teacher voice—saying, “Come over at ten, Thurley, you’ve a lot to answer for.” “Suppose I won’t come?” she retorted, delighted at the prospect. But he had disconnected. She deliberately made herself late by overdressing. A mad hatter’s model of a bonnet in blue and a frock of rose taffeta with a coat to match furnished her with the proper scenery, she admitted to herself. She slipped in to where Miss Clergy industriously sat knitting army socks and told her she was off for a coaching lesson. “A coaching or a dancing lesson?” Miss Clergy asked mischievously. “Both,” Thurley declared. She found Hobart in his inner study; he was playing an old gavotte and greeting her with a curt nod. “Well—is a luncheon to follow the lesson? You must have thought I’d keep you all morning. I’ve a pupil at eleven.” Thurley sat on one of the little peasant chairs and pouted becomingly. “I dress to suit my mood. Some mornings I have a desire for a winding sheet; this morning I wanted rose taffeta and sapphire velvet.” Hobart smiled. “Does Miss Clergy ever row about your adorers?”