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Bohun’s careful arrangements disparagingly. ‘They will hardly eat with your guests.’
    ‘Would they prefer their own table, Mrs Call?’ Sir Bohun cast a proud eye round the dining-room and altered the position of a spray of copper-beech leaves which he had been especially treasuring for some weeks. ‘It would simplify matters, certainly, if it did not disappoint them to be put on their own.’
    ‘It would be best, in the circumstances, sir. They would not then notice missing out most of the courses, as, of course, you would hardly expect them to eat through the whole of the dinner.’
    ‘Oh, there is that, yes. All right, then. How do they respond to the idea of dressing-up, and Timmy having his face blacked, eh?’
    ‘They have changed parts, sir. I thought it best.’
    ‘Changed parts?’
    ‘Yes, Sir Bohun.’ Nannie Call looked her employer so firmly in the eye as she imparted these tidings that he coughed apologetically and said:
    ‘Really? Really?’ in a feeble and conciliatory tone.
    ‘I could not have Master Timothy’s face blacked-out,’ pursued the faithful dragon. ‘It would have frightened him terrible. And Master Philip took umbrage at the black velvet tunic and little straight knickers and the deep lace collar you ordered. He said he wasn’t the princes in the Tower, and made himself very awkward, so I’ve shortened them up for Master Tim.’
    ‘I see. I see. All right. Just as they prefer it. Quite settled now, is it? No more bother, I mean?’
    ‘No, sir. Thank you, if that is all.’
    This, to Sir Bohun’s angry astonishment, although the first, was not the only indication that his writ did not necessarily run. Mrs Bradley and Laura, invited, as were the Dance pair, for the day before the party and to stay on for a few days after it, turned up at tea-time on the twenty-fourth of November, and were formally introduced to Brenda and Toby. When tea was over, Brenda Dance collared Laura and went upstairs with her. Laura, who had given unwinking attention to the siren, to her soft, dark, beautiful ‘little-girl’ hair, to her candid eyes and her fighter’s forearms, and had decided that she liked what she saw, invited Mrs Dance into her room and displayed the outfit of Mrs Grant Munro.
    ‘Not really my kettle of fish,’ Laura mournfully observed. ‘Wish now I hadn’t taken it on. I’ve been re-reading the script, and it seems to me that something in the line of Miss Mary Sutherland would suit me ever so much better. I’m big enough, goodness knows, and I’d adore to wear a boa and a picture hat, and look good-hearted and common. Besides, I can type, and I always get ink on my fingers and wear holes in my gloves.’
    ‘Mrs Grant Munro?’ said the enraptured Mrs Dance, eyeing Laura’s preparations. ‘Married to an African, and a black baby thrown in for good measure? My dear , this is where we change parts! It may take us all night and all to-morrow morning to make over the clothes, but who cares? And dear Bobo will be frantic at having his arrangements upset, and I do love him when he’s frantic!’
    ‘Here, I’m not a bit of good in the dressmaking line,’ said Laura hastily, alarmed by the suggestion that needlework would be involved in the changeover.
    ‘No need. I have a certain genius that way. Basically, you see, we need do very little to the costumes except to let down my hems for you, and take yours up for me, and adjust the other measurements a bit,’ Mrs Dance blithely explained.
    So, to Sir Bohun’s inarticulate fury, Mrs Dance, mischievous and pretty, appeared as the adventurous, experimental Mrs Grant Munro, and Laura scored a major success as the inhibited, faithful, cruelly misled bride-left-at-the-altar, Miss Mary Sutherland, boa, picture-hat, and all.
    This shock to the host came at a bad time. No sooner had Mrs Dance first broken the news to Sir Bohun that she and Laura had changed costumes than she added that she refused to dine wearing her bustle. Then