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say, “Marty had this knocking about in his toy-cupboard. I told Nurse I’d bring it down.” But it wasn’t. When she thought about doing it she couldn’t even open the door and go in. It was too stupid. If Doris, who was one of the housemaids, hadn’t come along the passage, she might have just stuck there and grown into the floor. As it was, she got herself inside the room and found it empty. Voices from the bedroom next door proclaimed that Mrs. Oakley was dressing for dinner.
    With a feeling of relief, Dorinda put the photograph down upon a gimcrack writing-table and ran upstairs to assume the despised blue dress.
    When she came down again Mrs. Oakley had exchanged the sofa for the most comfortable of the armchairs. Her fluffy draperies were still pink, but of a different shade. The photograph was nowhere to be seen. No reference was made to it, which suited Dorinda very well. Anyone who had known Glen Porteous might have just as good reasons as she had herself for not wanting to talk about him.
    They had a delightful meal on a tray. Dorinda told herself that there were going to be far too many meals, and all much too good, but it was a very pleasing change after the economical dullness of the food at the Heather Club.
    They had no more than finished dinner, when the telephone bell rang. As it had been explained to her that her most important duty was to stand between Mrs. Oakley and the telephone, Dorinda went to it. The instrument stood upon the writing-table where she had put the photograph. She lifted the receiver and said,
    “Mrs. Oakley’s secretary speaking.”
    A man’s voice said, “Will you tell Mrs. Oakley that Gregory Porlock would like to speak to her?”
    She replaced the receiver and repeated the request. With her back to her, Mrs. Oakley murmured,
    “I don’t speak to anyone except Martin or someone I know very well indeed—never, never, never. He must talk to you, and you can tell me what he says.”
    Dorinda took up the receiver again.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Porlock—Mrs. Oakley asks me to explain that she never speaks on the telephone. I’m new, or I should have known. If you will tell me what you want to say, I will pass it on.”
    She heard Mr. Porlock smother a laugh. Well, that was better than getting his back up. He said,
    “Will you tell her I saw her husband this afternoon? I’m having a week-end party, and he promised that he and his wife would join us for dinner on Saturday night. He said it would be all right, but as I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Oakley yet I don’t want to seem to be taking too much for granted.”
    Dorinda repeated this, and received the fretful reply that if Martin had said they would go, she supposed they would have to. The words were so barely audible that there were grounds for hoping that they would not carry as far as the Grange.
    Dorinda conveyed a polite acceptance, and heard Mr. Porlock say, “Splendid!”
    The word rang a bell somewhere. It reminded her of something or someone in one of those flashes which are so vivid whilst they last, and so impossible to recall when they are gone. She came out of a dizzying moment to hear him say,
    “Now this is where I ought to be talking to Mrs. Oakley, because I want to ask her to be very kind and bring you along. Miss Brown, isn’t it?… Yes, I thought that was what Martin Oakley said—Miss Dorinda Brown. Now will you be as persuasive as I should be myself and tell Mrs. Oakley that I am a lady short and I am particularly anxious to make your acquaintance.”
    Dorinda fixed a grave, frowning gaze upon the instrument. She considered Mr. Porlock’s manner to be on the familiar side. She repeated his invitation in the baldest possible way.
    “He says he is a woman short on Saturday, and will you bring me. He seems to have fixed it up with Mr. Oakley.”
    There was a murmur of assent. Dorinda put it into words, again heard Gregory Porlock say, “Splendid!” and hung up.
    When she came back