The fateful hour mentioned in the dinner invitation arrives, strikes,
and floats down the mists to the eerie catacombs of the Past. The
hostess knows that the cook, with arms akimbo, is breathing rebellion,
but tries to blot out the awful vision by an extra spurt of hollow
gaiety.

Ten minutes pass.

Conversation flags. The portly bachelor who lives at his club wonders
why he didn't have a chop before he came. His fellow-diners try to
refrain from the topic, but it is as hopeless as trying to talk to an
ex-convict without mentioning jails. Finally, in an abandon of
desperation, they all turn inquiringly to the hostess, who, affecting
an ease of manner, says pleasantly, 'Dear me! What _can_ have detained
Mr. So-and-so? I wonder if we had better go in without him?'

And then he arrives--the jackass--and in a sublime good-humour! He
tells some cock-and-bull story about his taxi breaking down, and
actually seems to think he's done rather a smart thing in turning up at
all. In short, he brings in such an air of geniality and
self-appreciation that the guest who arrived first has more than a
notion to 'have him out' and send him to a region where dinner-parties
are popularly supposed to be unknown.

No--the lot of a lady who gives dinners is not a happy one.


II.

On this Friday night of November in the year 1918, Lady Durwent sat by