handy-man; Melissa, Watson and Hughes. The four nurses escaped
official announcement because they had been clever enough to
anticipate the formality.

Awkward, ill-at-ease in Sunday garments, and almost sullen in their
efforts to appear impressed, they formed an amazing group as they
clumsily ranged themselves in a compact fringe outside the more
favoured guests of the evening, who occupied what may be described as
the "orchestra." They remained standing.

"Ever see the play called 'The Admirable Crichton'?" whispered Mr.
Bingle to Flanders while the servants were crowding into their places.

"Yes," said Flanders. "I recognise the setting, but I miss the grown-
up daughters. Diggs is shorn of his opportunities, sir."

"That play gave me an idea. It was written by a fellow named Barrie.
He also wrote 'Peter Pan.' That is the greatest play ever written."

"If one believes in fairies, Mr. Bingle."

"Well, I do," said Mr. Bingle.

"So do I," said Flanders, his gaze wandering. Miss Fairweather was
caught in the act of staring at him. She lowered her eyes.

Mr. Force arbitrarily had settled into the chair next to little
Kathleen. His hard, impassive face wore a softer expression than was
usually to be observed there, and his voice, ordinarily brusque and
domineering, became ludicrously soft and wheedling.