“. . . Sir Eric and Lady Denby . . .”
“They ought to come, anyhow,” she groaned, hopefully, “seeing it’s the Party. The Fanshawes, the Howarths, Sullivan and Azalea Deane . . . she’s sure to come . . . that makes twenty-nine. There’s one more envelope, Mod!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Dilling,” read the girl.
“Dilling?” echoed her father.
“Of course, Augustus. Don’t gape at me in that way!”
“But you just told me—I thought you had your knife into the Dillings.”
“So I have, you fool!”
“Then why the hell do you ask them to your party?”
Mrs. Pratt so forgot herself as to stamp her foot. “Can’t you see,” she cried, “that they’re getting on?”