Scudaway. "What were you doing out in the rain?" she asked after the
order for drinks had been taken.

"Hurrying to get out of it," he said with evasive good humour, "and
thinking how much nicer your fogs are than ours," he added quickly.

"Anybody come over with you?" asked the bore, agreeably.

"No, they're playing bridge over at Mrs. Thursdale's and that lets me
out. Beastly headache, too. Got out for a breath of air." The silence
that followed this observation seemed to call for further
explanations. "Miss Thursdale retired soon after dinner, wretchedly
under the weather. That rather left me adrift, don't you know. I'm not
playing bridge this year."

"You're not? Why not, pray?"

"Chiefly because of last year. My Mercedes came on from New York
yesterday and I got her out for a spin. Couldn't resist, don't you
know. She's working beautifully."

"There's one thing about a Mercedes that I don't like--and you don't
find it in a Panhard. I've got a Panhard and--" Dobson was saying with
all the arrogance of a motor fiend, when Mrs. Scudaway ruthlessly and
properly cut him off.

"We know all about your Panhard, Dobby. Don't bother. Is Eleanor
really ill, Mr. Windomshire?"

"I had it from her own lips, Mrs. Scudaway."