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directors and their wives were leaving in their carriages. Even Mr. Baines had a little fly pulled by an overfed pony. But for the lower ranks the charabanc stood waiting, pulled by two enormous shaggy horses.
    Polly turned to the marquis hesitantly and held out her hand. “Until we meet again, my lord,” she said softly.
    He took her little hand in his and looked down at her thoughtfully. “
Are
we going to meet again, Miss Marsh?”
    Her eyes flew to his face. “But of course. I mean…” She fell silent.
    Oho! thought the marquis. So that’s the way the land lies. Damn Peter! Philandering little monkey. The last time it had been that barmaid at Oxford, and now this!
    “Good-bye,” he said, firmly releasing her hand and turning abruptly away.
    Polly climbed to the upper deck of the charabanc and sat down on the hard wooden seat next to Bob Friend and Amy Feathers. As the charabanc clattered down the drive, and the low branches of the trees began to brush the heads of the passengers on the upper deck, Polly took one long look back.
    The duke and the duchess and their two sons were standing on the terrace. They seemed to be arguing.
    About what—about me
? wondered Polly.
I belong here!
she thought fiercely.
    But as Mr. Oscar Wilde so rightly pointed out, “All the world’s a stage, but the players are badly cast.”
    Polly turned back and settled herself down for the long journey home. She decided to practice her charm on Bob Friend and absolutely ruined what was left of the day for poor little Amy Feathers.
    The staff picnic had left several of the travelers in cross and upset frames of mind.
    Sir Edward Blenkinsop burst into his wife’s boudoir in their Putney mansion, choleric blue veins standing out on his forehead.
    “Women these days just don’t know their place,” he began.
    Lady Blenkinsop gave a delicate sigh and raised her Japanese fan to cover the look of boredom on her face. Lady Blenkinsop had been ill for as long as anyone could remember. Doctors could do nothing to cure her because there seemed to be nothing wrong besides an ever-present lethargy and general lack of spirits. She dragged herself from the bed in the morning, only moving as far as the chaise longue in her boudoir. She was a thin, faded woman in her forties.
    “Do stop picking up things and putting them down, Edward,” she said with a slight trace of animation. “If you wish to complain about something, by all means complain and get it over with.”
    Sir Edward needed only this cold encouragement. He burst forth with a long tale of the iniquities of Polly, ending up with “… and I shall see that she is dismissed first thing on Monday morning.”
    “Oh, really, my dear,” said his wife in her quiet, frail voice. “Do you consider that wise?” Lady Blenkinsop was beginning to feel interested in something for the first time in years. She had once meet the Duchess of Westerman and had been terrified.
    Imagine a little office girl taking in Her Grace like that!
    “What d’ye mean ‘not wise’?” barked Sir Edward.
    “Well, my dear,” said his wife plaintively, “since this office girl seems to have enchanted young Lord Peter… I mean, wasn’t there a rumor of Lord Peter going into the business after that scandal at Oxford?”
    “Yes, of course. But what’s that—”
    “
And
,” pursued his wife with unaccustomed vigor, “don’t you think he would be a little upset to find out that his
chère amie
had got the boot, so to speak?”
    “‘Got the boot!’ Where do you pick up these common expressions? Pshaw. The duke would never stand for such goings on.”
    “Oh no? What about that little actress from the Hippodrome who enjoyed the marquis’s favors for some years? The duke didn’t seem to mind.”
    “If you mean Daisy Sharp… she was not employed by Westerman’s.”
    “But the duke
never
concerns himself with Westerman’s,” said his wife sweetly. “He told me so himself. Said trade was an awful