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like to know where you got the money for that frock.”
    Now, somewhere, Polly had read that the only social defense in this sort of situation is complete honesty.
    Gathering her courage, she smiled sweetly at Mrs. Baines.
    “Oh, it isn’t
my
frock,” she said. “It’s Lady Windermere’s.”
    The marquis looked amused. “You mean Mr. Oscar Wilde’s Lady Windermere?” he asked.
    “Yes,” replied Polly sedately. “Act Two. I have a friend who was a theatrical dresser.”
    All the gentlemen burst out laughing, including Mr. Baines, who received a fulminating glance from his wife.
    Mrs. Baines did not know when she was defeated. “And to say ‘the only female’ is pure impertinence.
I
am here and all the other wives. There are plenty of ladies present.”
    Polly’s cool blue eyes drifted across the scene. “You must forgive me, Mrs. Baines,” she said gently, “I really had not noticed.”
    The marquis was beginning to feel heartily sorry for Mr. Baines. A shrew for a wife and a minx for a secretary.
    “I am sure you must be looking forward to a cup of tea, Mrs. Baines. Why don’t you take Miss Marsh over to the tables and your husband and I will refresh ourselves with something stronger,” he added with gentle malice, sliding his arm through the arm of the much gratified Mr. Baines.
    “My Bert don’t drink,” said Mrs. Baines.
    Mr. Baines opened his mouth like a fish out of water.
    “Oh, but we gentlemen have to discuss business. I insist,” said the marquis firmly.
    “Don’t worry about Miss Marsh,” said Lord Peter hurriedly. “I’ll escort her.”
    He swept Polly off, leaving Gladys Baines alone with Sir Edward. Sir Edward’s bad temper had returned. “Harrumph!” he said to Mrs. Baines and stomped off.
    The chatter at the tea tables stilled as Polly and Lord Peter approached. Amy Feathers, the switchboard girl, felt her heart sink right down to her little white spats. Bob Friend had been ever so attentive and now he was staring at that Polly girl as if no one else in the world existed. The staff had been freely maligning Polly and her stuck-up ways in her absence and they, with the exception of Mr. Friend, felt it very unfair that, not only was she remaining unpunished for her cheek, but that she was being escorted to tea by a lord.
    “I say, I don’t feel like joining that mob,” said Lord Peter cheerfully. “Hey, Jenkins. Fetch a little table over here under this tree for me and Miss Marsh.”
    Jenkins brought a small card table over and spread it with a white cloth. He looked as if he would have liked to bundle Polly up in it and take her away and throw her in the lake.
    Mrs. Baines glared across at Polly who was now seated tête-à-tête with Lord Peter. Polly’s table under the spreading branches of a great oak tree looked deliciously cool, unlike the rest of the tables that were broiling in the sun.
If Bertie Baines doesn’t dismiss that girl on Monday morning
, she thought,
I am going home to mother
.
    “Where do you live, Miss Marsh?” Lord Peter was asking.
    Polly thought desperately. She
knew
she belonged in this setting. What harm would a few lies do?
    “I live with my foster parents in a quaint little cottage near the City,” she said airily. “They are very rough people, but honest. Old servants of my family, you know.”
    “And your parents… ?”
    “Oh, poor Mama and Papa. Such an unworldly couple. Never any money, you know. But they were great travelers. They were killed when I was just a baby. A typhoon… Indian Ocean, you know.” Here Polly produced a wisp of handkerchief and applied it to the corner of one dry blue eye.
    “Oh, I say! I’m frightfully sorry. ’Course I knew you were good family the moment I saw you. Mama’s a ridiculous snob. After all, Maisie Carruthers—you know, the Sussex Carruthers—is working as a stenographer. Secretary to Lady Jellings. Poor thing! Her family hasn’t a bean and she lives in this businesswoman’s hostel in