“Yes, do.  Beattie will write too, or tell Rosamund when she sees her.”

“Whom are you going to have?”

“Oh, Mrs. Chetwinde for one, and—­we must see whom we can get.  We’ll try to make it cheery and not too imbecile.”

As Daventry was speaking, Dion felt certain that the dinner had an object, and he thought he knew what that object was.  But he only said: 

“It’s certain to be jolly, and I always enjoy myself at the Carlton.”

“Even with bores?” said Daventry, unable to refrain from pricking a bubble, although he guessed the reason why Dion had blown it.

“Anyhow, I’m sure you won’t invite bores,” said Dion, trying to preserve a casual air, and wishing, for the moment, that he and his friend were densely stupid instead of quite intelligent.

“Pray that Beattie and I may be guided in our choice,” returned Daventry, going to pick up the “Saturday Review.”

Rosamund said of course she would go on the twenty-eighth and help Beattie with her dinner.  She had accepted before she asked who were the invited guests.  Beattie, who was evidently quite guileless in the matter, told her at once that Mrs. Clarke was among them.  Rosamund said nothing, and appeared to be looking forward to the twenty-eighth.  She even got a new gown for it, and Dion began to feel that he had made a mistake in supposing that Rosamund had long ago decided not to know Mrs. Clarke.  He was very glad, for he had often felt uncomfortable about Mrs. Clarke, who, he supposed, must have believed that his wife did not wish to meet her, as her reiterated desire to make Rosamund’s acquaintance had met with no response.  She had, he thought, shown the tact of a lady and of a thorough woman of the world in not pressing the point, and in never seeking to continue her acquaintance, or dawning friendship, with him since his wife had come back to town.  He felt a strong desire now to be pleasant and cordial to her, and to show her how charming and sympathetic his Rosamund was.  He looked forward to this dinner as he seldom looked forward to any social festivity.

On the twenty-sixth of November Robin had a cold!  On the twenty-seventh it was worse, and he developed a little hard cough which was rather pathetic, and which seemed to surprise and interest him a good deal.  Rosamund was full of solicitude.  On the night of the twenty-seventh she said she would sit up with Robin.  The nurse protested, but Rosamund was smilingly firm.

“I want you to have a good night, Nurse,” she said.  “You’re too devoted and take too much out of yourself.  And, besides, I shouldn’t sleep.  I should be straining my ears all the time to hear whether my boy was coughing or not.”

Nurse had to give in, of course.  But Dion was dismayed when he heard of the project.

“You’ll be worn out!” he exclaimed.

“No, I shan’t But even if I were it wouldn’t matter.”

“But I want you to look your radiant self for Beattie’s dinner.”