Half-past-seven!

Green.

Though I wasn't in bed till two this morning. At eight I had a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast, and skimmed the papers. From eight-thirty till ten I dictated a special article on our modern English hostesses—"The Hostesses of England: Is Hospitality Declining?", a question I answer in the negative——

Roope.

[In a murmur.] Quite right.

Green.

At ten o'clock, a man from Clapp and Beazley's with some patterns of socks and underwear. Disposed of him, dressed, and by a quarter-to-eleven I was in the Park. Strolled up and down with Lady Ventnor and Sir Hill Birch and saw everybody there was to be seen. I nevah make a single note; my memory's marvellous. Left the Park at twelve and took a taxi to inquire after Lord Harrogate, Charlie Sievewright, and old Lady Dorcas Newnham. I'm not boring you?

Roope.

Boring us!

Green.

Lady Dorcas caught sight of me from her window and hailed me in. I sat with her for twenty minutes—"Greenie" she always calls me—[mimicking] "Now, Greenie, what's the noos?" Haw, haw, haw! I walked away from Lady Dorcas's, and was in Upper Grosvenor Street punctually at one. [To Roope.] There's been a meeting at the Baroness Van der Meer's to-day, you know, over this fête at the Albert Hall.

Roope.

Ah, yes; I'm to be in Lady Freddy Hoyle's Plantagenet group. I'm a knight in attendance on King John.

Green.

I had a short private chat with the Baroness, and followed her into the drawing-room. They were still at it when I sneaked out at a side door, and heah I am.

Roope.

Extraordinary! Hey, Phil?

Philip.

[Leaning against the chair by the writing-table, dryly.] Most interesting.

Green.

[To Philip, rising.] I lunch with Roope—[to Roope] you'll have to let me off at three, Robbie—and then my grind begins again.

Roope.

[Throwing up his hands in admiration.] Oh!

Green.

Horse Show, two musical parties—Lady Godalming's and Mrs. Reggie Mosenstein's; then home and more dictation to my secretary. Dine with Sir Patrick and Lady Logan at the Carlton, and then to the Opera with my spy-glass. From Covent Garden I dash down to Fleet Street, write my late stuff, and my day's done—unless I've strength left for Lady Ronaldshaw's dance and a crush at Mrs. Hume-Cutler's.

Roope.

[Repeating his former action.] Oh! Oh!

[Noyes reappears.

Noyes.

Mrs. Walter Quebec.

[Mrs. Walter Quebec enters and Noyes withdraws.

Roope.

[Taking Mrs. Quebec's hand.] My dear Mrs. Wally, how are you?

Mrs. Quebec.

[A bright, energetic, fairly young lady.] How'r you, Robbie? Walter is so grieved; he's lunching at the Auto with Tony Baxter. He did try to wriggle out of it—[Discovering Green and going to him with her hand extended.] Oh, I am glad! You're just the man I'm dying to see.

Green.

[Kissing her hand.] Haw——!

Mrs. Quebec.

Lady Skewes and I are getting up a concert in aid of the poor sufferers from the earthquake in—what's the name of the place?—I forget—Lady Skewes knows it—and we want you to say a lot about us in your darling paper. Only distinguished amateurs; that's where the novelty comes in. Lady Skewes is going to play the violin, if she can pull herself together—she hasn't played for centuries—[seeing Philip, advancing, and shaking hands with him casually] how d'ye do?—[to Green] and I've promised to sing.

Green.

Splendid.

Roope.

But how captivating!

Mrs. Quebec.

[To Green.] I've sung so seldom since my marriage, and they've had such a difficulty to lure me out of my tiny wee shell. Would you mind dwelling on that a little?

Green.

Of course not; anything I can do, deah lady——

Mrs. Quebec.

That's too utterly sweet of you. You shall have full particulars to-morrow. I wouldn't bother you, but it's charity, isn't it? Oh, and there's something else I want you to be kind over——!

[Noyes returns.

Noyes.

Mrs. Godfrey Anslow.

[The Hon. Mrs. Godfrey Anslow enters and Noyes goes out again.

Mrs. Anslow.

[A tall, languishing woman with a toneless drawl—to Roope.] Am I late?

Roope.

[Pressing her hand.] Not a second, my very dear friend.

Mrs. Anslow.

Can't help it if I am. My car got smashed up last week in Roehampton Lane, and the motor people have lent me the original ark, on wheels. [Mrs. Quebec comes to her.] Hullo, Esmé!

Mrs. Quebec.

[Shaking hands.] How'r you, Millicent?

Mrs. Anslow.

[Going to Green and giving him her hand.] Oh, and here's that horrid Mr. Green!

Green.

My deah Mrs. Anslow!

Mrs. Quebec.

Horrid! What's he done? [Sitting in the chair by the small table.] I consider him a white-robed angel.

Mrs. Anslow.

I sent him a long account of my accident at Roehampton and he hasn't condescended to take the slightest notice of it.

Mrs. Quebec.

Oh, Mr. Green!

Mrs. Anslow.

[To Green.] It's cruel of you.

Green.

[To Mrs. Anslow, twiddling his moustache.] Alack and alas, deah lady, motor collisions are not quite in my line!

Mrs. Anslow.

You might have passed it on to the accident man. Or you could have said that I'm to be seen riding in the Row evidently none the worse for my recent shock. That's in your line.

Green.

Haw! I might have done that, certainly. [Tapping his brow.] Fact is—height of the Season—perfectly distracted——

Mrs. Anslow.

[With the air of a martyr.] It doesn't matter. I sha'n't trouble you again. I've never been a favourite of yours——

Green.

[Appealingly.] Haw! Don't——!

Mrs. Anslow.

It's true. I was one of the few stall-holders at the Army and Navy Bazaar whose gowns you didn't describe—[Seeing Philip and nodding to him hazily.] How d'ye do?

Roope.

[Prompting her.] Mr. Mackworth——

[Mrs. Anslow goes to Philip and proffers him a limp hand. Green retreats to the fireplace and Mrs. Quebec rises and pursues him.

Mrs. Anslow.

[To Philip.] I think we met once at my cousins', the Fairfields'.

Philip.

[Bowing.] Yes.

Mrs. Anslow.

You write, don't you?

Philip.