“I think he is charming,” said Miranda.

Harold Jupp looked from one to the other.

“That seems to settle it, doesn’t it?  But——­”

“But what?” asked Sir Chichester.

“Need we listen to the ridiculous exhibitions of male jealousy?” Miranda asked plaintively.

“But,” Harold Jupp repeated firmly, “I do like a man to have another address besides his club.  Now, I will lay a nice five to one that no one in this room knows where Mario Escobar goes when he goes home.”

A moment’s silence followed upon Harold Jupp’s challenge.  To the men, the point had its importance.  The women did not appreciate the importance, but they recognised that their own menfolk did, and they did not interrupt.

“It’s true,” said Sir Chichester, “I always hear from him with his club as his address.  But it simply means that he lives at an hotel and is not sure that he will remain on.”

Thus the little things of every day occupied the foreground of Rackham Park.  Millicent Splay had her worries of which Joan Whitworth was the cause.  She loved Joan; she was annoyed with Joan; she admired Joan; she was amused at Joan; and she herself could never have told you which of these four emotions had the upper hand.  So inextricably were they intermingled.

She poured them out to Martin Hillyard, as they drove through the Park at Midhurst on the Thursday morning.

“What do you think of Joan?” she asked.  “She is beautiful, isn’t she, with that mass of golden hair and her eyes?”

“Yes, she is,” answered Hillyard.

“And what a fright she is making of herself!  She isn’t dressed at all, is she?  She is just—­protected by her clothes.”

Hillyard laughed and Millicent Splay sighed.  “And I did hope she would have got over it all by Goodwood.  But no!  Really I could slap her.  But I might have known!  Joan never does things by halves.”

“She seems thorough,” said Hillyard, although he remembered, with some doubts as to the truth of his comment, moments now and again when more primitive impulses had bubbled up in Joan Whitworth.

“Thorough!  Yes, that’s the word.  Oh, Mr. Hillyard, there was a time when she really dressed—­dressed, you understand.  My word, she was thorough then, too.  I remember coming out of the Albert Hall on a Melba afternoon, when we could get nothing but a hansom cab, and a policeman actually had to lift her up into it like a big baby because her skirt was so tight.  And look at her now!”

Millicent Splay thumped the side of the car in her vexation.

“But you mustn’t think she’s a fool.”  Lady Splay turned menacingly on the silent Hillyard.

“But I don’t,” he protested.

“That’s the last thing to say about her.”

“I never said it,” declared Martin Hillyard.

“I should have lost my faith in you, if you had,” rejoined Millicent Splay, even now hardly mollified.