'Good-morning, sir. Will you have the _Times_ or the _Morning Post_?
And here are your letters, sir.'

The recumbent gentleman took the letters and waved them philosophically
at the valet. 'Leave me to my thoughts,' he said thickly, but with
considerable dignity. 'I am not interested in the squeaky jarring of
the world revolving on its rusty axis.'

Being an author, he almost invariably tried out his command of language
in the morning, as a tenor essays two or three notes on rising, to make
sure that his voice has not left him during his slumber.

Mr. Watson bowed and withdrew. H. Stackton Dunckley lit a cigarette,
opened the first letter, and read it.


'8 CHELMSFORD GARDENS.

'MY DEAR STACKY,--Next Friday I am giving a little dinner-party--just a
few _unusual_ people--to meet an American author who has recently come
to England. Do come; but, you brilliant man, don't be too caustic,
will you?

'Isn't it dreadful the way gossip is connecting our names? Supposing
Lord Durwent should hear about it!--Until Friday,

'SYBIL DURWENT.

'P.S.--How is _the_ play coming on? Dinner will be at 8.30.'