“When I was a young man—­” began Mr. Lanley.

“It was the custom,” interrupted Adelaide in exactly the same tone, “for a hostess to be in her drawing-room at least five minutes before the hour set for the arrival of the guests.”

“Adelaide,” her father pleaded, “I don’t talk like that; at least not often.”

“You would, though, if you didn’t have me to correct you,” she retorted.  “There’s the bell at last; but it always takes people like that forever to get their wraps off.”

“It’s only ten minutes past eight,” said Farron, and Mathilde blessed him with a look.

Mrs. Wayne came quickly into the room, so fast that her dress floated behind her; she was in black and very grand.  No one would have supposed that she had murmured to Pete just before the drawing-room door was opened, “I hope they haven’t run in any old relations on us.”

“I’m afraid I’m late,” she began.

“She always is,” Pete murmured to Mathilde as he took her hand and quite openly squeezed it, and then, before Adelaide had time for the rather casual introduction she had planned, he himself put the hand he was holding into his mother’s.  “This is my girl, Mother,” he said.  They smiled at each other.  Mathilde tried to say something.  Mrs. Wayne stooped and kissed her.  Mr. Lanley was obviously affected.  Adelaide wasn’t going to have any scene like that.

“Late?” she said, as if not an instant had passed since Mrs. Wayne’s entrance.  “Oh, no, you’re not late; exactly on time, I think.  I’m only just down myself.  Isn’t that true, Vincent?”

Vincent was studying Mrs. Wayne, and withdrew his eyes slowly.  But Adelaide’s object was accomplished:  no public betrothal had taken place.

Pringle announced dinner.  Mr. Lanley, rather to his own surprise, found that he was insisting on giving Mrs. Wayne his arm; he was not so angry at her as he had supposed.  He did not think her offensive or unfeminine or half baked or socialistic or any of the things he had been saying to himself at lengthening intervals for the last twenty-four hours.

Pete saw an opportunity, and tucked Mathilde’s hand within his own arm, nipping it closely to his heart.

The very instant they were at table Adelaide looked down the alley between the candles, for the low, golden dish of hot-house fruit did not obstruct her view of Vincent, and said: 

“Why have you never told me about Marty Burke?”

“Who’s he?” asked Mr. Lanley, quickly, for he had been trying to start a little conversational hare of his own, just to keep the conversation away from the water-front.

“He’s a splendid young super-tough in my employ,” said Vincent.  “What do you know about him, Adelaide?”

The guarded surprise in his tone stimulated her.

“Oh, I know all about him—­as much, that is, as one ever can of a stupendous natural phenomenon.”

“Where did you hear of him?”