Half London was smiling gently at the resemblance between Lady Holme and Miss Schley before the former made up her mind to ask the latter to “something.” And when, moved to action by certain evidences of the Philadelphia talent which could not be misunderstood, she did make up her mind, she resolved that the “something” should be very large and by no means very intimate. Safety wanders in crowds. She sent out cards for a reception, one of those affairs that begin about eleven, are tremendous at half past, look thin at twelve, and have faded away long before the clock strikes one. Lord Holme hated them. On several occasions he had been known to throw etiquette to the winds and not to turn up when his wife was giving them. He always made what he considered to be a good excuse. Generally he had “gone into the country to look at a horse.” As Lady Holme sent out her cards, and saw her secretary writing the words, “Miss Pimpernel Schley,” on an envelope which contained one, she asked herself whether her husband would be likely to play her false this time. “Shall you be here on the twelfth?” she asked him casually. “Why? What’s up on the twelfth?” “I’m going to have one of those things you hate--before the Arkell House ball. I chose that night so that everyone should run away early! You won’t be obliged to look at a horse in the country that particular day?” She spoke laughingly, as if she wanted him to say no, but would not be very angry if he didn’t. Lord Holme tugged his moustache and looked very serious indeed. “Another!” he ejaculated. “We’re always havin’ ‘em. Any music?” “No, no, nothing. There are endless dinners that night, and Mrs. Crutchby’s concert with Calve, and the ball. People will only run in and say something silly and run out again.” “Who’s comin’?” “Everybody. All the tiresome dears that have had their cards left.” Lord Holme stared at his varnished boots and looked rather like a puzzled boy at a _viva voce_ examination. “The worst of it is, I can’t be in the country lookin’ at a horse that night,” he said with depression. “Why not?” She hastily added: “But why should you? You ought to be here.” “I’d rather be lookin’ at a horse. But I’m booked for the dinner to Rowley at the Nation Club that night. I might say the speeches were too long and I couldn’t get away. Eh?” He looked at her for support. “You really ought to be here, Fritz,” she answered. It ended there. Lady Holme knew her husband pretty well. She fancied that the speeches at the dinner given to Sir Jacob Rowley, ex-Governor of some place she knew nothing about, would turn out to be very lengthy indeed--speeches to keep a man far from his home till after midnight.