The telephone bell rang, and went on ringing. Miss Agatha Hardwicke kept her instrument in the front hall where everyone could hear every single word that was said. If the postman came while you were talking, or a caller, or an errand boy, he, she or it was also included in the audience. And if you happened to be in your bedroom five floors up, you had to run all the way down and arrive breathless.

Gay Hardwicke arrived breathless. “If it’s anyone else about that blighted bazaar, I’ll smash you!” she said, and jammed the receiver against one ear. With the other she heard the kitchen door open at the foot of the basement stair. That meant that Mrs. Hollings was listening in. She always did when Gay telephoned, and Gay didn’t really mind, because Holly was an old pet and so passionately interested in her affairs. She probably wouldn’t listen for very long this time, because it was a female voice that said,

“Miss Hardwicke-can I speak to Miss Hardwicke?”

“Miss Hardwicke is out, I’m afraid.”

Why Aunt Agatha couldn’t be at home to take her own blighted calls about her own blighted bazaar instead of having them just when one was half way through washing one’s hair-

But the telephone had suddenly become eager and explanatory.

“Gay-darling-is that you? Your voice sounded all woofly-”

“So would yours if you had to run down five flights of stairs every time Aunt Agatha’s League of Help thought of a new pattern for a pincushion.”

“My poor angel-how grim! It’s Marcia Thrale speaking.”

“Yes, I got that. Where are you?”

“Well, it’s too marvellous-darling, I must see you-I’m at the Luxe.”

“What on earth are you doing at the Luxe?”

Well, it’s simply too marvellous. You know my Uncle George?“