"'Darling Felicity, be a perfect angel and let my maid see your mauve tea-gown. I know you are so good-natured or I wouldn't dare to ask. I am very anxious about HIM. Oh, why are men always the same? I found out that the wretch instead of being ill, the other day, had taken that awful Lucy Winter to a picture-gallery. What a girl! All red hair and eye-glasses. Let me see you soon. Your devoted friend, Vera Ogilvie.' I am sure Vera needn't worry. Lucy Winter was evidently wild about F. J. Rivers last night. I must tell her. What stupid letters! Oh! here's a new handwriting.
"'98 Half Moon Street, 2 o'clock a.m.—Dear Lady Chetwode, I should be counting the minutes till 4.30, but they pass too slowly to be counted. It's thirteen hours and a half, anyhow. I can't believe I shall really see you again. How eternal yesterday was! Why do the gods follow each feast day with a fast? By the way, I have a little Romney here so marvellously like you that you really ought to see it.'" Felicity smiled. "Steady! Rather a nice handwriting. 'Sincerely yours, Bertie Wilton.' Very promising. 'P.S. I have left a long space between the lines so that you should read between them.' Everett, I'll wear my tailor-made dress this morning and for lunch. The mauve tea-gown at four. I'm only going to the theatre to-night. Let me see, what is it? Oh! the St. James's. The white crêpe de chine. Then, remind me to wire to the Creepers on the evening of their afternoon to say I have a chill. Have some gardenias and lilies for the drawing-room, and let me see them. There's the telephone! I suppose Chetwode has rung me up again."
Then followed a one-sided conversation through the telephone, which was fixed by the side of the Louis Quinze bed.
"Yes, darling.... Oh, all right.... Didn't he?... I say, you might come back soon.... I really shouldn't bother about that screen.... What?... I said screen, not scream.... We have heaps more than we want already.... Oh! and ever so many people are coming this afternoon.... A perfectly new young man.... What?... Oh, not bad!... Safety in numbers?... Even if you take the numbers one at a time?... Good-bye."
Savile at lunch was gloomy and taciturn. Absently he had partaken three times of a certain favourite dish, made of chestnuts and cream, repeatedly proffered, with empressement and a sort of respectful sympathy, by Greenstock. Then he pushed his plate away, and said when they were alone—
"Funny! I can't eat a thing! Sylvia says I live on nothing but oranges. Pretty rotten sign, eh? Here's what I've heard about HER."
He took out of his purse a neatly-cut-out paragraph from The Queen. It stated that Madame Patti had been warmly greeted by all the village of Craig-y-nos, and was about to give an afternoon concert there for the benefit of the poor.
"I shan't have another chance to see HER before I go back," said Savile, looking steadily at his sister.
She followed his idea in a second. "All right! Poor boy! There's no great harm. Shall I give you the—change"—(to Savile, Felicity always spoke of money as change)—"to run up to Wales and hear her sing, and then come back the same evening? It doesn't really matter what time you arrive home, you see. You can stay with me. I'll tell papa you're going to a concert and I want you to stay with me."
Savile was nearly purple with joy. "Would you really? What bricks girls can be!" He shook hands with her with intense self-restraint, and murmured, "I shan't forget this, old girl."