‘Well, don’t blame me for it, my dear,’ replied Henry.  ’I dropped in to tell you that William has just ’phoned up to say he accepts our invitation to dinner this evening, but he is most anxious to know who else is coming.’

I stared.  ’This is most unusual.  What should it matter to him who is coming?’

’I told him, of course, that there was only Marion and ourselves, and then he asked if he should get into evening dress.  What do you think of that?’ We looked at each other in silent amazement.

‘William—­in—­evening—­dress,’ I echoed blankly.  ‘What can it mean?’

’Frankly, I think the poor old chap’s brain is getting a little unhinged,’ hazarded Henry.  ’Do you remember the episode with the white spats and gloves the other day?  I think you ought to persuade him to see a specialist, my dear.’

Suddenly I remembered the apparent reason for poor William’s altered manner and smiled.  ’I don’t think we need call in medical aid just yet,’ I replied.

Nevertheless, I felt that he must be cured of this foolishness as soon as possible, for, as I had already hinted to him, any attempt at embellishing his person would only make him appear more grotesque.  How little did I then dream of the amazing surprise that was in store for me!

I was sitting alone in the drawing-room that same evening awaiting my two guests, Marion and William (Henry was upstairs dressing), when Elizabeth burst into the room.

’Oh, ’m, ‘e’s come!’ she exclaimed, ‘an’ you never did see anything in your life ‘arf so funny.  I’ve been larfin’ fit to split my sides.’

‘Elizabeth,’ I said coldly, ‘what is wrong?  Of whom are you speaking?’

For answer she threw her apron over her head and went off into an almost hysterical fit of laughing.

‘’Oo’d have thort it,’ she said when she had slightly recovered.  ’That there grizzly bear of a Mr. Roarings, too!’

‘So you are referring to one of my guests,’ I interrupted sternly.  ‘I’m ashamed of you, Elizabeth.’

’Well, you only ort ter see ‘im now!  Talk about grubs turnin’ into butterflies——­’

‘I’m not talking about anything of the sort,’ I interposed with extreme asperity of manner.  ‘Am I to understand that Mr. Rawlings has arrived?’

’Not ’arf, ’e ’asn’t.  Wait till you see Mamma’s boy.  ’E’s a fair razzle-dazzle from top to toe.  Oh, my godmother!’ And being seized with another burst of hysterical laughter she dashed from the room.

[Illustration:  ‘A fair razzle-dazzle.’]

I sighed as I put aside the French novel I had been reading when I was so rudely disturbed.  I could not help wishing just then that Elizabeth had a little less character and a little more deference, and I decided that I must rebuke her for her familiarity.  Then, remembering her supreme art in grilling a steak, I decided that rebukes—­practised on domestics—­are rather risky things in these days.