'For about six-and-eleven, I think.'

'Don't be trivial, Edith. We shall be late. Ah! It really does seem
rather a pity, the very first time one dines with people like the
Mitchells.'

'We sha'n't be late, Bruce. It's eight o'clock, and eight o'clock I
suppose means--well, eight. Sure you've got the number right?'

'Really. Edith!... My memory is unerring, dear. I never make a mistake.
Haven't you ever noticed it?'

'A--oh yes--I think I have.'

'Well, it's 168 Hamilton Place. Look sharp, dear.'

On their way in the taxi he gave her a good many instructions and
advised her to be perfectly at her ease and _absolutely natural_; there
was nothing to make one otherwise, in either Mr or Mrs Mitchell. Also,
he said, it didn't matter a bit what she wore, as long as she had put
on her _best_ dress. It seemed a pity she had not got a new one, but
this couldn't be helped, as there was now no time. Edith agreed that
she knew of no really suitable place where she could buy a new evening
dress at eight-thirty on Sunday evening. And, anyhow, he said, she
looked quite nice, really very smart; besides, Mrs Mitchell was not the
sort of person who would think any the less of a pretty woman for being
a little dowdy and out of fashion.

When they drove up to what house agents call in their emotional way a
superb, desirable, magnificent town mansion, they saw that a large