"Of course. The third before supper," answered Joan.
Already Sir Chichester was putting on his coat in the hall.
"Come on! Come on!" he cried impatiently, and then in quite another tone, "Oh!"
The evening papers had arrived late that evening. They now lay neatly folded on the hall table. Sir Chichester pounced upon them. The throbbing motor-cars at the door, the gay figures of his guests were all forgotten. He plumped down upon a couch.
"There!" cried Millie Splay in despair. "Now we can all sit down for half an hour."
"Nonsense, my dear, nonsense! I just want to see whether there is any report of my little speech at the Flower Show yesterday." He turned over the leaves. "Not a word apparently, here! And yet it was an occasion of some importance. I can't understand these fellows."
He tossed the paper aside and took up another. "Just a second, dear!"
Millie Splay looked around at her guests with much the same expression of helpless wonderment which was so often to be seen on the face of Dennis Brown, when Miranda went racing.
"It's the limit!" she declared.
There were two, however, of the party, who were not at all distressed by Sir Chichester's procrastination. When the others streamed into the hall, Joan lingered behind, sedulously buttoning her gloves which were buttoned before; and Harry Luttrell returned to assist her. The door was three-quarters closed. From the hall no one could see them.