Harriet rose and came to the window, to behold the cob threading a Ladies’ Chain with half-a-dozen vehicles at the “Duke’s” kerb. Poor Wiggie, utterly at its mercy, chirrupped, sang and apologised in a breath. “Why not get _him_ to play?” Lancaster added. “Much use!” Harriet laughed contemptuously. “_He_ can’t do anything but _sing_! By the way, he wants to know if you’ll do him the favour to ask him to the dinner? I offered him my ticket, but Stubbs went out and threw bricks at the hens until I withdrew, so I had to come to you. Dandy wants to know what it’s like, so of course Wiggie’s ready to break his neck over it. He’d do anything for her--crawl into the boiler and come out with the steam!” She did not look at him--she was too sporting for that--but she felt as if in herself the sudden twinge of jealousy that for a moment held him still. Then he said “Of course!” and handed her the ticket; and she turned to the door with a rough-and-ready greeting for the next comer. Lanty’s voice followed her. “Two o’clock--and you’d better tell him to pass the punch! It’ll just about finish him if he isn’t used to that sort of thing, and he doesn’t look over-sturdy. The atmosphere will be pretty dangerous, too. You might mention in passing that there’s no need to make a martyr of himself. I can tell Miss Shaw anything she wants to know.” Harriet said “Right-o!” with a queer smile, adding,--“you’ll think on about that pig-hull?” for the benefit of her successor, and went out with the ticket burning in her pocket. It was Dandy’s ticket all right, no matter who passed the punch or coughed in the smoke.