‘Oh, that’s all changed. Mr. Crosby has furnished his house all over again from beginning to end. Of course we’ve been through it many times when he was away, but now you wouldn’t know it. It appears he has had things stored up after his travels—left in their cases, indeed—that lately have been brought to light. The drawing-room is perfect, and—the pictures——’ ‘And the people?’ asks Betty impatiently; she is distinctly material. ‘Very, very nice too—that is, most of them. Miss Prior was there. She—well, I can’t bring myself to like her.’ ‘What did she do to you?’ asks Dom. ‘Oh, nothing; nothing really, only——’ ‘That’s enough,’ says Carew. ‘You didn’t hit it off with her, evidently.’ Susan hesitates, and as usual is lost. ‘I can’t bear her,’ says she. ‘And that lovely girl who drove home with Mr. Crosby?’ asks Betty. ‘Ah, she is even lovelier than I thought,’ says Susan, with increased enthusiasm. She finds it quite easy to praise her now. ‘And so charming! She wished particularly to be introduced to me, and——’ ‘Did she?’—from Betty. ‘What a good thing that she likes you! If she marries Mr. Crosby she may be very useful to us.’ ‘I don’t think she is going to marry him,’ says Susan thoughtfully. ‘No?’—with growing interest. ‘They’—casting back her thoughts—‘looked very like it on Sunday. How do you know?’ ‘I asked him,’ says Susan simply. ‘What!’ They all sit up in a body. ‘You—asked him?’ ‘Yes. Does it sound dreadful?’ Poor Susan grows very red. ‘It’—nervously—‘didn’t sound a bit dreadful when I did it. And’—desperately—‘I did, any way.’ ‘It wasn’t a bit dreadful,’ says Carew good-naturedly. ‘Not a bit. Go on, Susan.’ Dom regards her with large encouragement. ‘Did you ask him any more questions? Did you ask him if he would like to marry you? There wouldn’t be a bit of harm in that, either, and——’ ‘Dominick!’ says Susan in an outraged tone. Here Betty promptly catches his ear, and, pulling him down beside her, begins to pommel him within an inch of his life. ‘Never mind him, Susan. He’s got no brains. They were left out when he was born. Tell us more about your luncheon-party.’ ‘There is so little to tell,’ says Susan in a subdued voice. Her pretty colour has died away, and she is looking very pale. ‘What about the poet?’ ‘Oh, the poet! His name is Jones, of all the names in the world!’ Here she revives a little, and at certain recollections of the illustrious Jones, in spite of herself, her smiles break forth again. ‘He——’ She bursts out laughing. ‘It sounds horribly conceited, but I really think he believes he is in love with me. Such nonsense, isn’t it?’ (Oh, too pretty Susan! who wouldn’t be in love with you?) ‘I don’t know about that,’ says Dom, who has escaped from Betty’s wrathful hands and is prepared to go any length to prevent a recurrence of the late ceremonies. ‘He might do worse!’