“Dr…?”

“Hart. The seventh and last character. He, too, is of foreign extraction, though he became a naturalized Briton sometime after the last war. I fancy he is a Viennese, though whether I deduce this conclusion subconsciously from his profession I cannot tell you.” Jonathan chuckled again and finished his sherry.

“What, in heaven’s name, is his profession?”

“My dear Aubrey,” said Jonathan, “he is a plastic surgeon. A beauty specialist par excellence. The male of the species.”

“It seems to me,” said Mandrake, “that you have invited stark murder to your house. Frankly, I can imagine nothing more terrifying than the prospect of this week-end. What do you propose to do with them?”

“Let them enact their drama.”

“It will more probably resemble some disastrous vaudeville show.”

“With myself as compère. Quite possibly.”

“My dear Jonathan, you will have no performance. The actors will either sulk in their dressing-rooms or leave the theatre.”

“That is where we come in.”

“We! I assure you—”

“It is where I come in, then. May I, without exhibiting too much complacency, claim that if I have a talent it lies in the direction of hospitality?”

“Certainly. You are a wonderful host.”

“Thank you,” said Jonathan, beaming at his guest. “It delights me to hear you say so. Now, in this party, I have set myself, I freely admit, a stiff task.”

“I’m glad you realize it,” said Mandrake. “The list of opposites is positively ghastly. I don’t know if I have altogether followed you, but it appears that you hope to reconcile a rejected lover both to his successor and to his late love; a business woman to her detested rival; a ruined beauty to an exponent of the profession that made an effigy of her face, and a mother to a prospective daughter-in-law who has rejected her favourite son for his brother.”