“I’ll go down to the river and angle for a roach,” said Colonel Barrington. “Or else come with me to town and dine at the Carlton. I’ll take you all in the Rolls-Royce. It will be a lovely run back.” “But, my dear, it’ll be joy-riding!” cried Mrs. Barrington. “It will be indeed,” said Lady Edna. “But suppose we’re held up?” “I’ll say I have to see my husband on important political business.” “And I’m a soldier on active service,” said Colonel Barrington, “and must be fed.” “You don’t mind, do you?” asked Lady Edna. Mind? Not they. What could be pleasanter on a perfect summer night? Besides, they had not tasted the guilty sweets of joy-riding for many months. It would be an adventure. They started merrily about six o’clock. Lady Edna was in gay spirits, as though enjoying a schoolgirl’s freak. Through the perfumed leafiness of Streatley, Basildon, Pangbourne, they flew at the high speed of the great car, through Reading and Maidenhead and Slough, through Hounslow and Brentford. What was fifty miles? As they approached London Lady Edna said: “Will you think me funny if I look in at Belgrave Square for a minute?” She spoke a word to the chauffeur. A while later the car swerved to the right from the direct route to Piccadilly, and at eight o’clock pulled up at the Donnithorpes’ house in Belgrave Square. Lady Edna sprang from the car and tripped up the steps. “I’ll let myself in with my latchkey,” she cried to the chauffeur who was about to ring the bell. In the hall she threw off her wraps, gave an instinctive tidying touch to her hair before a mirror, and walked smiling on her errand. She waved aside the hired stranger men-servants busy with plates outside the dining-room door and boldly entered. For a second or two no one observed her, then one or two guests caught sight of the slender figure stately in her evening gown, and half rose from their chairs. So the attention of all was called to her. Edgar Donnithorpe, sitting at the head of the table with his back to the door, turned and sprang to his feet with a gasp. To stay polite commotion she laughed and held up her hand. “Please don’t anyone get up.” Her husband, in white anger, said: “I thought you were at Moulsford, Edna. Is anything the matter?” “Only your dinner party,” she replied with derisive graciousness. “I happened to be dining in town, and it occurred to me to look in and see that your guests had everything they wanted—especially”—she scanned the faces deliberately—“as they are all new to the house.” She bowed and withdrew. Her husband threw down his napkin and followed her. Neither spoke till they reached the hall, when they faced each other. “I couldn’t make a scene before all those men,” he began. “Of course you couldn’t. I knew that,” she interrupted. “But I’ll make one now. By God I will! What do you mean by this outrageous behaviour?”