Joan Whitworth carried on too, in her sackcloth and sashes.  She was moved by the enthusiastic explosions of Miranda Brown to reveal some details of the great novel which was then in the process of incubation.

“She insists on being married in a violet dress,” said Joan, “with the organ playing the ‘Funeral March of a Marionette.’”

“Oh, isn’t that thrilling!” cried Miranda.

“But why does she insist upon these unusual arrangements?” asked Harold Jupp.

Joan brushed his question aside.

“It was symbolical of her.”

“Yes.  Linda would have done that,” said Miranda.  “I suppose her marriage turns out very unhappily?”

“It had to,” said Joan, quite despondent over this unalterable necessity.

“Now, why?” asked Jupp in a perplexity.

“Her husband never understood her.”

“What ho!” cried Dennis Brown, looking up from his scientific researches into “Form at a Glance.”

“I expect that he talked racing all day,” said Miranda.

Dennis Brown treated the rejoinder with contempt.  His eyes were fixed sympathetically on the young writer-to-be.

“I hate crabbing any serious effort to elevate us, Joan, but, honestly, doesn’t it all sound a little conventional?”

He could have used no epithet more deplorable.  Joan shot at him one annihilating glance.  Miranda bubbled with indignation.

“Don’t notice them, Joan dear!  They don’t know the meaning of words.  They are ribald, uneducated people.  You call your heroine Linda?  Linda—­what?”

Mr. Jupp supplied a name.

“Linda Spavinsky,” said he.  “She comes of the ancient Scottish family of that name.”

“Pig!  O pig!” cried Joan, routed at last from her superior serenity; and a second afterwards her eyes danced and with a flash of sound white teeth she broke into honest laughter.  She did her best to suppress her sense of fun, but it would get the better of her from time to time.

This onslaught upon Joan Whitworth took place on the Wednesday evening.  Sir Chichester came into the room as it ended, with a telegram in his hand.

“Mario Escobar wires, Millie, that he is held up in London by press of work and will only be able to run down here on Friday for the night.”

Hillyard looked up.

“Mario Escobar?”

“Do you know him?” asked Millie Splay.

“Slightly,” answered Hillyard.  “Press of work!  What does he do?”

“Runs about with the girls,” said Dennis Brown.

Sir Chichester Splay would not have the explanation.

“Nonsense, my dear Dennis, nonsense, nonsense!  He has a great many social engagements of the most desirable kind.  He is, I believe, interested in some shipping firms.”

“I like him,” said Millie Splay.

“And so do I,” added Joan, “very much indeed.”  The statement was defiantly thrown at Harold Jupp.