She sent out cards for a reception, one of those affairs that begin about eleven, are tremendous at half past, look thin at twelve, and have faded away long before the clock strikes one.
Lord Holme hated them. On several occasions he had been known to throw etiquette to the winds and not to turn up when his wife was giving them. He always made what he considered to be a good excuse. Generally he had “gone into the country to look at a horse.” As Lady Holme sent out her cards, and saw her secretary writing the words, “Miss Pimpernel Schley,” on an envelope which contained one, she asked herself whether her husband would be likely to play her false this time.
“Shall you be here on the twelfth?” she asked him casually.
“Why? What’s up on the twelfth?”
“I’m going to have one of those things you hate—before the Arkell House ball. I chose that night so that everyone should run away early! You won’t be obliged to look at a horse in the country that particular day?”
She spoke laughingly, as if she wanted him to say no, but would not be very angry if he didn’t. Lord Holme tugged his moustache and looked very serious indeed.
“Another!” he ejaculated. “We’re always havin’ ‘em. Any music?”
“No, no, nothing. There are endless dinners that night, and Mrs. Crutchby’s concert with Calve, and the ball. People will only run in and say something silly and run out again.”
“Who’s comin’?”
“Everybody. All the tiresome dears that have had their cards left.”