The goaded secretary had something of the air of a man leading a forlorn hope, and his ears had turned bright pink, but he went at it bravely. A serene-looking man with a light moustache and a made-up tie was passing, and he sprang upon him like a stoutish leopard. “Excuse me, sir.” “Eh?” “Will you kindly—would you mind—pardon me if I ask——” “What are you doing here?” demanded Miss Ukridge, curtly, cutting in on his flounderings with a masterful impatience. “How do you come to be at this dance?” The man seemed surprised. “Who, me?” he said. “I came with the rest of ’em.” “What do you mean, the rest of them?” “The members of the Warner’s Stores Social and Outing Club.” “But this is the dance of the Pen and Ink Club,” bleated Mr. Prout. “Some mistake,” said the other, confidently. “It’s a bloomer of some kind. Here,” he added, beckoning to a portly gentleman of middle age who was bustling by, “you’d better have a talk with our hon. sec. He’ll know. Mr. Biggs, this gentleman seems to think there’s been some mistake about this dance.” Mr. Biggs stopped, looked, and listened. Seen at close range, he had a forceful, determined air. I liked his looks. “May I introduce Mr. Charlton Prout?” I said. “Author of _Grey Myrtles_. Mr. Prout,” I went on, as this seemed to make little or no sensation, “is the secretary of the Pen and Ink Club.” “I’m the secretary of the Warner’s Stores Social and Outing Club,” said Mr. Biggs. The two secretaries eyed each other warily, like two dogs. “But what are you doing here?” moaned Mr. Prout, in a voice like the wind in the tree-tops. “This is a private dance.” “Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Biggs, resolutely. “I personally bought tickets for all my members.” “But there were no tickets for sale. The dance was for the exclusive——” “It’s perfectly evident that you have come to the wrong hall or chosen the wrong evening,” snapped Miss Ukridge, abruptly superseding Mr. Prout in the supreme command. I did not blame her for feeling a little impatient. The secretary was handling the campaign very feebly. The man behind the Warner’s Stores Social and Outing Club cocked a polite but belligerent eye at this new enemy. I liked his looks more than ever. This was a man who would fight it out on these lines if it took all the summer. “I have not the honour of this lady’s acquaintance,” he said, smoothly, but with a gradually reddening eye. The Biggses, that eye seemed to say, were loath to war upon women, but if the women asked for it they could be men of iron, ruthless. “Might I ask who this lady is?” “This is our president.” “Happy to meet you, ma’am.” “Miss Ukridge,” added Mr. Prout, completing the introduction. The name appeared to strike a chord in Mr. Biggs. He bent forward and a gleam of triumph came into his eyes. “Ukridge, did you say?” “Miss Julia Ukridge.”