ELEANOR

Coffee was served. Finally, liqueurs were offered. A moment later the servants withdrew silently, leaving the quartette to their cups.

The six shaded candles threw down upon the table a gentle light. This the silver and rosewood gave back vastly enriched. From a decanter before the host a fine old port rendered a comfortable glow. An onyx ash-tray and a match-box flashed by each painted plate; at either end of the table was a gold box of cigarettes; between the two men lay cigars; fruit was within reach; the board was not crowded, yet seemed to be pleasantly full; upon the sideboard were remaining champagne, water, coffee and the little group of liqueurs.

The dinner had been perfect, the service superb; but then you had come to expect that at 20 Park Place. It was the Willoughbys’ fault; from the day they were married they had always spoiled their guests.

Herrick looked across the violets at Eleanor Cloke.

“Kitchen, cellar, table and service,” he said, “all one long last word. Nell, how do they do it?”

Miss Cloke shrugged her white shoulders.

“You can search me,” she said hopelessly. “But don’t dwell on it, or I shall burst into idle tears.”

Madge Willoughby set down her cup.