“He insisted on coming up, Miss Quentin,” said Bunty, “although I told him you had only just arrived and would be in the middle of unpacking.”

“I’ve got an important message to deliver,” asserted Jerry, grinning, and shaking both Diana’s hands exuberantly.

“Oh, never mind the unpacking,” cried Diana, beginning to bundle the things off the tables and chairs back into one of the open trunks.  “Bunty darling, help me to clear a space, and then go and order tea for two up here—­and expense be blowed!  Oh, and I’ll put a match to the fire—­it’s quite cold enough.  Come in, Jerry, and tell me all the news.”

“I’ll light that fire first,” said Jerry, practically.  “We can talk when Bunty darling brings our tea.”

Miss Bunting shook her head at him and tried to frown but as no one ever minded in the least what Jerry said, her effort at propriety was a failure, and she retreated to set about the tea, observing maliciously:—­

“I’ll send ‘Mrs. Lawrence darling’ up to talk to you, Mr. Leigh.”

“Great Jehosaphat!”—­Jerry flew after her to the door—­“If you do, I’m off.  That woman upsets my digestion—­she’s so beastly effusive.  I thought she was going to kiss me last time.”

Miss Bunting laughed as she disappeared downstairs.

“You’re safe to-day,” she threw back at him.  “She’s out.”

Jerry returned to his smouldering fire and proceeded to encourage it with the bellows till, by the time the tea came up, the flames were leaping and crackling cheerfully in the little grate.

“And now,” said Diana, as they settled themselves for a comfortable yarn over the teacups, “tell me all the news.  Oh by the way, what’s your important message?  I don’t believe”—­regarding him severely—­“that you’ve got one at all.  It was just an excuse.”

“It wasn’t, honour bright.  It’s from Miss de Gervais—­she sent me round to see you expressly.  You know, while Errington’s away I call at her place for orders like the butcher’s boy every morning.  The boss asked me to look after her and make myself useful during his absence.”

“Well,” said Diana impatiently.  “What’s the message?” It did not interest her in the least to hear about the arrangements Max had made for Adrienne’s convenience.

“Miss de Gervais is having a reception—­’Hans Breitmann gif a barty,’ you know—­”

“Of course I know,” broke in Diana irritably, “seeing that I’m asked to it.”

Jerry continued patiently.

“And she wants you as a special favour to sing for her.  As a matter of fact there are to be one or two bigwigs there whom she thinks it might be useful for you to meet—­influence, you know,” he added, waving his hand expansively, “push, shove, hacking, wire-pulling—­”

“Oh, be quiet, Jerry,” interrupted Diana, laughing in spite of herself.  “It’s no good, you know.  It’s dear of Adrienne to think of it, but Baroni won’t let me do it.  He hasn’t allowed me to sing anywhere this last year.”