MRS. HILLIER habitually had breakfast in her own room, for no particular reason, but because Nigel encouraged her in this luxurious manner of beginning the day. He said a woman ought not to have to come down until the day had been a little warmed, and got ready for her; that she should have time to choose her clothes to harmonise with her moods—time, after a look at the weather, and hearing the news of the day, to settle on what the moods should be. For a man, on the contrary, he thought it ridiculous and weakly idle—indolent in a way not suited to a man. A man, according to Nigel, ought no more to have his breakfast in bed than to come down with a bow of blue ribbon in his hair, or to go and lie down before dressing for a dinner-party.

However, one morning it darted suddenly into Mary’s head that Nigel, on going downstairs to breakfast, while she did not, had nearly an hour to himself. What a horrible idea! What injustice to her! And it occurred to her that for years she had never seen Nigel open his letters. She had, indeed, not the slightest idea what his manner at breakfast was like. Was this fair? He always managed to get out of any invitation to the country which included them both.

As soon as she had thought of this, she rang for her maid, and dressed in the wildest hurry, as though she had to catch a train: leaving her tray on the little table untouched, the maid running after her to fasten hooks, and buttons, to stick in pins, and tie ribbons, as though they were playing a game.

Mary won. She was flying out of the room when the maid ran after her, saying:

“Madame, your tortoiseshell comb is falling out of your hair; won’t you let me finish dressing it?”

“Don’t worry, Searle. What does it matter?”

She flew downstairs.

Nigel looked up with that intense surprise that no one can succeed in disguising as the acutest pleasure.

“Well, by Jove,” he said, in his quick way, which was so cool and casual that it almost had the effect of a drawl. He looked at her closely, and said reassuringly:“After all, it may not be true; and if it is, it may be for the best.”

“What may not be true, Nigel. What do you mean?”

“Why, this sudden bad news.”

“What news? There is no news.”

“Isn’t there? By Jove, this is splendid! Just come down to have breakfast with me, then! Capital. What will you have, dear?”

He rang the bell.

“Are you sorry to see me?” she asked, darting looks at the envelopes by his plate, looks that were almost sharp enough to open them.

“Sorry to see you? Don’t be absurd! Your comb’s falling into the sugar basin, and I shouldn’t think it would improve the taste of the coffee. Look out! Help! Saved! Mary dear, why don’t you do your hair?”

“I was afraid you might go out before I came down.”

“Why, I’m not going out for ages, yet.”

He gave her his letters in their envelopes, with a half-smile.

“I don’t want to see them,” she said. “Why do you pass me the letters, as though you thought I came down for that?”

Nigel pretended not to hear. He opened the newspaper.“I thought,” she went on, “it seemed rather a shame that I should always have breakfast upstairs, and leave you alone, without anyone to keep you company.”

“Awfully kind of you, but, really, I don’t mind a bit.”

He gave a quick look round the room. He had again that curious, bitter sensation of being trapped. Was he now not even going to have this pleasant morning hour to himself?

Probably there was not a prettier room in London than this one. It had the pale pink and green, blue and mauve colouring of spring flowers; the curved shapes of the dainty artificial creatures who lived for fine and trivial pleasure only; the best Louis Quinze decoration. And to-day it was a lovely day; and the warm west wind blew in the breath of the pink and blue hyacinths in the window-boxes. There was that pleasant gay buzzing sound of London in June outside in Grosvenor Street: the growing hum of the season, that made one feel right in it, even if one wasn’t. Everything was peacefully happy, harsh and hard things seemed unreal; the world seemed made for birds and butterflies, light sentiment, colour, perfume and gay music. In this London life seemed like a Watteau picture.Nigel saw that he had never yet realised why he was so fond of this room, where he always had breakfast. It was because there he was free, and alone.

Now he was determined that there should be no quarrelling to-day. It is only fair to Nigel to say that he was always quite determined to keep away the quarrels; and fought against them. Placed as they were, with such infinitely more possibilities of happiness than nine mÉnages out of ten—though leaving out unfortunately one, and that the most important part—love—it was terrible that they should quarrel. He was so easy-going, so ready to ignore her faults, to make the best of things as they were. And she liked to quarrel, merely because it made her, for the time, of importance to him. In fact, being madly in love with him, and both wildly and stupidly jealous, to get up a quarrel was almost the only satisfaction she ever had, the only effect she ever produced now.

Since the other evening, when she had behaved with entire want of self-control, or, perhaps, rather with a kind of instinctive premeditated hysteria, she appeared to recognise that manner had not been a real success. She had tried, at all costs, to prevent him going to the theatre, and had failed.The next day they ignored the trouble; and for some time afterwards she seemed pleasanter, while he was kind and attentive, believing she had really forgotten her grievance.

On the contrary, it was more firmly fixed in her mind than before. She was absolutely determined that, on no excuse whatever, should he continue to see Bertha Kellynch.

She had found out that the host of the evening at the ballet had been Rupert Denison, and that Madeline Irwin, Bertha and Nigel were the guests. For more than a week Mary had entirely given up the quarrelsome and nagging mood, so that Nigel believed she no longer had this absurd fancy about Bertha. As a matter of fact, for the first time, she had really been dissembling, had spent a good deal of time and money in finding out how both Bertha and Nigel spent their time. What little she had found out had given her an entirely false impression, and that had resulted in a very desperate determination. She meant to carry it out this morning. But she wanted to talk a little more to Nigel first.

“Nigel dear, you know what you said the other evening about giving parties?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking, perhaps, dear, you’re right. I find I’ve dropped nearly all your old friends. I think we’d better give one big party—a reception, I think. Our drawing-room has never been seen yet.”

Nigel looked up, really pleased to see her taking a more normal sort of interest in her existence.

“By Jove! I am glad. That’s capital! Yes, of course. To start with we’ll give an At Home, as they call ’em.”

“Do you think there ought to be any sort of entertainment, Nigel?”

“Well, just as you like. You said you didn’t want music. … How would it be to have a band to play the whole evening?”

“Yes, that would do very well. Oh, and, Nigel! I find I’ve been so careless and forgotten all the addresses and lost the cards of people that we used to know. I shall want someone to help me.”

“Yes, I suppose Mademoiselle won’t do.”

“Oh no, she’s no use. I shall engage a typewriter to go through the list with me and send out cards.”

“Right-o! good idea.”

He was quite surprised and satisfied, and thought to himself how wise it was of him the other day to ignore the absurd fit of excitement when she had smashed the vases. Certainly she had been better ever since.“You’d like me to help you with the list, wouldn’t you, dear?” he said presently.

She gave him a sharp look.

“I suppose we’d better ask everybody we know to this sort of thing,” she said.

“Your mother and I are not on the best of terms, I’m afraid. But you must be sure to ask her, and we’ll make it up.”

Nigel thought to himself that really would be only fair, considering that he had practically and ingeniously invented the quarrel on purpose; in order that he could have an excuse to go out when Mary’s mother came to see her. But, really, Nigel liked her personally and knew that she liked him, and that she was not without sympathy for anyone who had to live with her daughter.

“I suppose you’ll want me to ask the Kellynches?” asked Mary, in a rather low voice.

“It would look natural if you did. But, really, I have seen so little of them for the last few years that you can please yourself about it.”

“You’ve accepted several invitations from them,” said Mary, in rather a cutting tone. “Perhaps it would be as well to return them.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever dined there,” said Nigel casually.“Didn’t you meet them that night at the Russian Ballet? Don’t deny it! I know you all went to supper at the Savoy.”

“Who’s denying it! You know that Denison asked me to supper at the Savoy, and that Madeline Irwin was there, and Mrs. Kellynch.”

“Quite a nice little partie carrÉe,” said Mary, unable to keep up her plan of self-control, and speaking in a trembling voice.

“Now, Mary, don’t be absurd! You know it’s hardly usual for a bachelor like Rupert to ask three women or three men to supper!”

“I suppose he drove Miss Irwin home?” said Mary, commanding herself as well as she could.

“No, he didn’t. Why should he? Mrs. Kellynch who is Madeline’s intimate friend, naturally drove Miss Irwin home in her car. And Rupert, who lives near here, dropped me. It was some little time ago, by the way, but I remember it quite well. Nice feller Rupert—we ought to ask him, too.”

“All right, dear.”

They parted amiably.

An hour later Mary was going through her lists of cards and addresses with the typewriter when she suddenly said:“Oh, Miss Wilson, I’m writing a sort of story. And it’s to be told in a series of letters.”

“Oh yes.”

“Will you please take this down. This is the address: Percy Kellynch, Esq., 100 Sloane Street. It begins like this: ‘Dear Mr. Kellynch——’” …