The annoying thing about Henry, too, is his lack of discernment regarding men.  I have known him speak glowingly, and with unabated enthusiasm, of ‘a most interesting chap’ he has met at his club, referring to him as ‘altogether delightful,’ ’a charming conversationalist,’ and so on, until I have felt impelled to ask Henry to bring this treasure home to dinner.

Then, after expending myself in the preparation of such things as hors d’oeuvres and iced cocktails and putting on my most becoming frock Henry has walked in with a veritable monster of a man.  You know the kind I mean.  Quite good and God-fearing and all that, but with one of those dreadful clematis moustaches which cling half over the face, beginning at the nostrils and curling under the chin, a form which undulates in the region of the waistcoat, and a slow and pompous conversation (mainly devoted to the discussion of politics in the ’fifties).

I remember, shortly after one of these visitations, Henry ringing me up on the ’phone and asking if it was convenient to bring a man home to dinner that evening.

‘What is he like?’ I inquired, still smarting under recent experiences, ‘has he much moustache—­I mean, is he nice?’

Henry paused.  ’Oh, all right.  I don’t know whether you’d care for him.  Perhaps I’d better not——­’

‘Yes, bring him if you want to, dear,’ I conceded.  I am not one of those fussy wives.  I like Henry to feel that he can bring a friend home whenever he likes; but on this occasion I did not make unusual preparations.  After bidding Elizabeth turn the cold meat into curry and judiciously water the soup to make it enough for four instead of three, I tidied my hair and descended into the hall to see Henry helping a man off with his overcoat—­and such a man!  It was the dashing, the handsome, the witty Harvey Trevor (political writer on the Morning Sun).

It was too late to back upstairs again and improvise upon my toilette, for they both looked up and saw me at that moment.  So there I stood, like a stag at bay, with my nose unpowdered (Henry would say that a stag doesn’t powder its nose, but you will know what I mean) wearing my dullest and most uninspired house-frock, and hurling silent anathemas at my heartless husband.

You will now understand how useless Henry was as an ally in my matrimonial plans for Marion.  But I was doggedly determined that she should make some man happy.  At last, indeed, it seemed as though my efforts were to be crowned with success when George Harbinger appeared on the scene.

He took to her at once and said that she was just the sort of girl his mother would like.  He declared that Marion’s oyster patties were things of pure delight and ought to be eaten to slow music. (Yes, I always got Marion to make some of her special pastry when the eligibles came to dine.) He openly sought her society.  They even played draughts together and he always won.  Everything was going splendidly.