“Hope you enjoy it,” said Nigel, but the receiver had gone dead.

At cocktail-time on that same day, June 14th, Arthur Surbonadier called on Miss Stephanie Vaughan at her flat in Shepheard’s Market and asked her to marry him. It was not the first time he had done so. Miss Vaughan felt herself called upon to use all her professional and personal savoir-faire. The scene needed some handling and she gave it her full attention.

“Darling,” she said, taking her time over lighting a cigarette and quite unconsciously adopting the best of her six by-the-mantelpiece poses. “Darling, I’m so terribly, terribly upset by all this. I feel I’m to blame. I am to blame.”

Surbonadier was silent. Miss Vaughan changed her pose. He knew quite well, through long experience, what her next pose would be, and equally well that it would charm him as though he were watching her for the first time. Her voice would drop. She would purr. She did purr.

“Arthur darling, I’m all nervy. This piece has exhausted my vitality. I don’t know where I am. You must be patient with me. I feel I’m incapable of loving anybody.” She let her arms fall limply to her sides and then laid one hand delicately on her décolletage for him to look at. “Quite incapable,” she added on a drifting sigh.

“Even of loving Felix Gardener?” said Surbonadier.

“Ah — Felix!” Miss Vaughan gave her famous three-cornered smile, lifted her shoulders a little, looked meditative and resigned. She managed to convey a world of something or another, quite beyond her control.

“It comes to this,” said Surbonadier. “Has Gardener”—he paused and looked away from her—“has Gardener cut me out?”

“My sweet, what an Edwardianism. Felix talks one of my languages. You talk another.”

“I wish to God,” said Surbonadier, “that you would confine yourself to plain English. I can talk that as well as he. I love you. I want you. Does that come into any of your languages?”