“Oh, not that sort of woman, Marian. Good sorts, who believe that the world was made for men and women, not men and women for the world. We’ll send a line round to some of them: ‘Suppers begin again Sunday next. Come whenever you don’t want to go anywhere else.’ Everything’s put on the table and we wait on ourselves. Fred—Fred Mortimer—you’ll like him—is a dandy man with the chafing-dish, and when he comes we indulge in extravagant luxuries.”
“You’re quite sure about me?”
“Of course I am. Quite sure and quite proud. It’ll be awfully jolly having a hostess. Hullo! I wonder who this can be—don’t move.”
The door opened and the servant announced Mr. Philip West.
“I beg your pardon——”
Marian rose.
“Mrs. Squire,” said Maddison, “let me introduce Mr. Philip West. Mrs. Squire is helping me to paint a picture.”
“Helping!” she exclaimed. “I’m the fly on the wheel.”
West examined the picture and Marian critically.
“Have you a name for it?” he asked.