"Doesn't she like Belgians then, Val?"
"I've never asked her. Only, don't you see, it isn't that but the Belgian is what Harry calls a blighter—a beano-blighter; and so is Mrs. Wyburn, and it doesn't do to have two beano-blighters in the same party."
"Ah, I see; they'd clash. What is a beano-blighter exactly, Val?"
"A person who blights beanos. Who makes every one a little uncomfortable, casts a gloom over entertainments—has to be taken in hand and dealt with separately from the others—doesn't blend, you know."
"You mean some one who isn't the life and soul of the party?"
"No, I don't. That's almost as bad in its way. In fact, the life-and-soul-of-the-party person casts almost as great a gloom on the rest as a blighter."
"Oh dear! Yes, I see."
"We must meet her at the station in the motor. I shall put on my blue serge and my plain sailor. She mustn't see me in the garden without a hat, nor in a real one. You do the same, Daphne."
"But my sailor's too large in the head, and that makes it fall over my eyes, and that gives it a Frenchy look, like L'Art et la Mode," protested Daphne.
"Stuff it with paper. Here's the Bystander."