“A whiff of powder soon puts things right,” he was saying. Bladge looked surprised. “You too, General!” she cooed, almost hectically, Gav thought. “You very nearly shock me, you know.” And with neat furtiveness she offered him a tiny crystal _tabatière_ encrusted with fire-opals. “What--what’s this, m’gal?” gasped General Tremullion. Lady Jordan, a skilled hostess of the _haute monde_, affected to notice nothing. “But have a whiff, old thing, if it does you good,” answered Bladge cordially. “It’s the right stuff all right. Straight from Chinatown!” But the old soldier declined. “You young people!” he smiled, and passed on. A piqued frown shadowed Lady Blandula’s brow for an instant. “These b----y Victorians!” she muttered, rising from the step. “G----d, it’s too d----d quiet for me here. H----g it, I’m for bed. Night, Gav.” A _soupçon_ of Peau d’Espagne, and the modern Circe was gone. * * * * * Throughout that week-end the amazing pair tested each the other’s strength, vying from dawn to eve in the audacity of their wit and the originality of their whimsies. If Lady Blandula resolved to sleep on the roof, Gaveston asked for his bed to be made on the lawn. Did Gaveston swim in the river? Lady Blandula was quick to organize a motor-trip to bathe in the sea! If Lady Blandula danced on the dinner-table when the wine was brought, Gaveston slid down the great staircase on a silver tea-tray, whooping and tally-hoing to his heart’s content. The very footmen, of whom there were ten, entered into the spirit of this breathless competition. All through Sunday the stables rang with “Three to two on Mr. Fooliss!” or “Even bobs on the filly!” Gav and Bladge--the duet of the day! The thought gave Lady Jordan a comforting sense of security as she lay awake in bed in the early hours of Monday morning, listening to the tea-trays racing in the moonlight down the West terrace steps. Was she not their _entremettrice_ and _impresaria_? It had cost her years of effort, but it could only be counted a triumph for her diligence. To improve her status, had she not diligently taken a house in Chelsea (a part of London she particularly disliked, having been brought up to believe that it lay low)? Had she not organized endless concerts there (she was unhappily tone-deaf)? Had she not brought numberless cubist pictures (her real taste was for Marcus Stone)? She had. But now she had achieved! And she fell asleep deliciously, to dream of living once more on the salubrious heights to the North of the Park, of buying another Farquharson, of playing _vingt-et-un_ in the evening. She was secure at last: no post-card of invitation but would evoke enthusiastic acceptance, no satire but would add to her reputation. After many years, Lady Jordan was entering the Promised Land.