In the hall, a broad-shouldered woman with cropped grey hair and sturdy features was abusing Mrs. Abbott, whose frequent titters were eerily at variance with her wizened miserable expression. A supple, olive-skinned man lounged gracefully against the balustrade beside them. His vague sweet smile embraced all humanity. “How do you do, Mrs----” Ursula stopped short, for though she had constantly heard the pair referred to, like a performing troupe, as “Miss Gregson and her Eye-talian,” she had no idea of Miss Gregson’s married name. “How do you do. You, of course, are Mrs. Barrison. Whose house is this?” “Mine.” Miss Gregson triumphantly answered her own question before Ursula or Mrs. Abbott had time to offer an opinion. “Most kindly,” interposed Mr. Abbott, “we took it off your hands on a seven years’ lease, when--ah--an unpopular marriage decided you to quit the neighbourhood.” The Eye-talian beamed. “I didn’t decide. We were kicked out,” Miss Gregson said bluntly. “I’ve not had any rent from you yet--that’s my trouble.” “And _I_ have not had any rent from the Laceys, to whom I sub-let it for three years, because, owing to alien interference, they sent the rent straight to you, to whom it was not due ... I’m mentioning no names,” finished Mrs. Abbott with a sardonic salute to the absent Mr. Wright. “And pray, to whom did _you_ pay the rent?” the Oliver-Cromwellian lady demanded of Ursula, who bowed her small gold head reverently and replied: “To God ...” and then ran with swift step upstairs, pursued by Abbott’s fat chuckle. She found Major Allingham-Jones minutely interested in the furnishings of her bedroom. “Are those duns downstairs?” he snapped inquisitively. “D’you owe ’em money? Can’t you get rid of ’em? Who’s the fat fellow? Who’s the Dago draped over the balustrade? Who’s----” “They are all, more or less, landlords of this house. Perhaps, if you still feel inclined to rent it, you’d do well to consult some of them.” “But--bless me--my dear young woman--I _have_ rented it. Came to an agreement with Lacey about it, by post, only yesterday. He said he’d wire you. I say, where does your husband keep his clothes, if you stuff up all this chest of drawers with yours? And why his brushes on top? But before you tell me, I’ll just come downstairs and turn these impostors out.” “Do.” Ursula led the way. Mrs. Allingham-Jones drifted out of Tody’s bedroom, and joined them. The tide of battle seemed to have rolled out on to the front lawn, where, dim legendary figures swirled about with fog, Tody argued with the American: