She had not much time at her disposal, and she slipped into her black evening gown with a passing wonder as to how Jeff’s friends would be attired.  Descending again, she found Jim Dawlish fixing a piece of mistletoe over the parlour door, and smiled at his occupation.

He smiled at her in a fashion that sent the blood suddenly and hotly to her face, and she passed on to the kitchen, erect and quivering with anger.

“Lor’, my dearie, what a pretty picture you be, to be sure!” was Granny Grimshaw’s greeting, and again a tremor of misgiving went through the girl’s heart.  Had she made herself too pretty for the occasion?

She mustered spirit, however, to laugh at the compliment, and busied herself with the final arrangements.

Jeff appeared a few minutes later, clad in black but not in evening dress.  His eyes dwelt upon his wife for a moment or two before he addressed her.

“Do you mind being in the parlour when they come in?”

She looked up at him with a smile which she knew to be forced.  “Are you sure I shan’t be one too many, Jeff?”

“Quite,” said Jeff.

There was no appealing against that, and she accompanied him without further words.

Jim Dawlish was standing by the parlour door, admiring his handiwork.  He nudged Jeff as he went by, and was rewarded by Jeff’s heaviest scowl.

A minute later, to Doris’s mingled relief and dread, came the sounds of the first arrival.

This proved to be a Mr. Griggs and his son, a horsey young man, whom she vaguely knew by sight, having encountered him when following the hounds.  Mr. Griggs was a jolly old farmer, with a somewhat convivial countenance.  He shook her warmly by the hand, and asked her how she liked being married.

Doris was endeavouring to reply to this difficult question as airily as possible, when three more of Jeff’s friends made their appearance, and were brought up by Jeff in a group for introduction, thereby relieving her of the obligation.

The party was now complete, and they all sat down to supper in varying degrees of shyness.  Doris worked hard to play her part as hostess, but it was certainly no light task.  Two of the last-comers were brothers of the name of Chubb, and from neither of these could she extract more than one word at a time.  The third, Farmer Locke, was of the aggressive, bulldog type, and he very speedily asserted himself.  He seemed, indeed, somewhat inclined to browbeat her, loudly arguing her slightest remark after a fashion which she found decidedly exasperating, but presently discovered to be his invariable habit with everyone.  He flatly contradicted even Jeff, but she was pleased to hear Jeff bluntly hold his own, and secretly admired him for the achievement.

On the whole, the meal was not quite so much of an ordeal as she had anticipated, and she was just beginning to congratulate herself upon this fact when she discovered that young Griggs was ogling her with most unmistakable familiarity whenever she glanced his way.  She at once cut him pointedly and with supreme disdain, only to find his father, who was seated on her right, doing exactly the same thing.