She wondered much at his graciousness for the next few days. He became attentive, manifested dry solicitude as to her health and her social and political interests. She dreaded a recrudescence of the thin sentiment that, on his part, had sanctioned their marriage. The fear tainted the joy of her visits to the mythical canteen. Sooner open hostility than this semblance of conjugal affection. “I’m sorry, darling, to have been so mouldy,” she said, taking leave of Godfrey one morning, “but the situation is getting on my nerves. I’m fed up.” A day or two later Edgar Donnithorpe entered her sitting-room, where she was writing letters. “Sorry to interrupt you, Edna,” said he, “but have you definitely decided to go to Moulsford this next week-end?” “Certainly. I told you. The Barringtons and Susie Delamere and one or two others are coming.” “Do you mind if I don’t turn up till Sunday?” “Of course not,” she replied. He was exceedingly polite. “Thanks,” said he. “The fact is, I want to ask a dozen men or so to dinner here. Only men, you know.” She glanced at him rather puzzled, for his proposal was an unprecedented departure from the custom of the house. Hitherto he had given his men’s political dinner parties at his club. There had been no arrangement or understanding between them as to this mode of entertainment, but so had it chanced to be; and he was a creature of routine. “Of course. Just as you like. But what’s wrong with the only place fit to dine at in London?” “It’s war time, my dear,” said he, eyeing her shiftily. “War time. All the clubs have gone to the devil.” “All right. If you’ll tell me how many are coming, I’ll see to it.” “No, please don’t. Please don’t worry your head about it.” He made a step forward and held up his thin hand in a deprecatory sort of way. “I’ll fix it up. I don’t want it to be the slightest bit of a concern to you. Thanks so much.” He hurried out. Lady Edna frowned at her half-written letter. A devious man, Edgar. What was in the wind? The cook the next day, however, submitted to her a menu which, with a housewifely modification or so, she passed, and thought no more of the material banquet. During the week the hint of a rumour reached her, when, at a public meeting, she ran up against the Rt. Hon. Sir Berkeley Prynne, a Member of the Government who had been hostile to her husband for many years and had only given the hatchet superficial burial during the party truce. “I suppose you know a lot of us are quaking in our shoes?” he said, half banteringly. “I don’t,” she said. “But I’ve no doubt it’s good for you. What’s the matter?” “Signs of underground rumblings. Your quick ears have detected nothing?” “No. Really. Honour bright. Do tell me.” He shook his head and laughed. “It’ll be a wash-out,” said he, moving away.