Mr. Blandfoot lay in the bath, the letter in his hand. Dabs of shaving soap had fallen on it, and steam had made the lines run. It was a pitiful object, fallen on evil days since it left Mrs. Marling’s writing-table. We will read the letter over his shoulder. He has cleaned his razor on the envelope, but one has no difficulty in recognizing Mrs. Marling’s elegant Italian hand.

With astonishing dexterity Mr. Blandfoot converted the letter into a paper boat, and propelled it with his breath to the far end of the bath. Then he took aim with his sponge and an accurate shot sent the boat to the bottom. It did not reappear. Rising from the bath, Mr. Blandfoot arranged the towel round his waist like an apron. He walked slowly towards a pier glass. Except for a bright narrow margin round the edge, the mirror was misted over with steam; but so tall was Mr. Blandfoot that he could see his eyes reflected in the unclouded area at the top. Our observer, stationed discreetly by the door, could also see them and see the smile which, with ever-growing intensity, they gave back to Mr. Blandfoot’s approaching figure.

‘Do you think he’s come yet?’ asked Mrs. Pepperthwaite of Mrs. Stornway, glancing at the clock in the hall of Mrs. Marling’s house. It showed a minute to ten.

‘He told me at tea,’ Mrs. Stornway whispered, ‘that he might be a little late as he wanted to wash the picture. I said “Is that quite wise?” and he said “Yes, it makes the colours fresher.” ’

‘You are the only person in Settlemarsh who is in his confidence!’ exclaimed Mrs. Pepperthwaite simply.

‘Oh no! But I do think that this time he really means to bring the picture. He practically told me so.’

They were led away. People who came to Mrs. Marling’s house were taken into as many ante-chambers as possible before they were admitted to her presence. The turning of several corners confused them as to their physical and mental whereabouts, so that when they encountered their hostess such self-confidence as they possessed was considerably shaken. Like people who have been blindfolded in a children’s game and whisked rapidly round, they were conscious of cutting an awkward figure.

‘How good of you to come so soon,’ said Mrs. Marling as she greeted them. ‘I am always grateful when my oldest friends arrive early. This is Mr. Hesketh, Mrs. Stornway. An old friend of Settlemarsh. It was very different when you lived here, wasn’t it, Arthur? You must tell him about the new building developments in your neighbourhood, Eva: he’s fond of architecture: I wish he could have seen your new house before he went away: it would have interested him so much.’

The room began to fill. To Mrs. Pepperthwaite a party of any kind was like heaven. Her timidity, that distressed her in the company of two or three people, she felt to be an asset in the presence of forty or fifty: she knew instinctively that it pleased them to find someone less at ease than they were: she went the round of her acquaintance, making to each a small offering of her self-esteem, a sacrifice which, in the prevailing communal amiability, was always graciously accepted. Whereas most of her friends preferred to hide their ignorance, she was delighted to inquire who so-and-so was, whose photograph she had so often seen in the Settlemarsh Clarion, but whose name she could not remember. Never had she had so many opportunities of indulging her craving for humility as to-night: all the chief personages of the neighbourhood were gathered together in Mrs. Marling’s drawing-room. Some of the citizens of Settlemarsh, headed by Mrs. Peets, were inclined to cling together defensively, eyeing with hostility and apprehension these visitants from a larger world. Mrs. Pepperthwaite was unconscious of their ignoble herd-feeling; she rejoiced in strange contacts and she was justified in her confidence: everyone was nice to her. She wandered into the bridge-room and stood behind the chairs of the players. When one of them took a trick she smiled as if she had taken it herself. Once she leaned over the shoulder of a forbidding-looking man whose name she scarcely knew and indicating a card said, ‘I should play that.’ ‘Now would you?’ he said, selecting a card from another part of his hand, from a different suit indeed; but he smiled at her so charmingly it was quite as if he had followed her suggestion. In a corner she found a couple playing chess, their heads bent over the board.

‘Can you play four games at once like Capablanca?’ she asked at random of the two of them. One of the men looked up, the strain of concentration dying from his face like a cloud from the sky. ‘Do you mean me?’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a very moderate player.’ But Mrs. Pepperthwaite could see he was flattered that she had imagined him capable of such a feat.

The sound of music recalled her to the drawing-room. It was Anton Melzic at the piano: she recognized him the moment she saw him. He had been plain Antony Mellish when he lived in Settlemarsh before he had gone away and made a name for himself abroad. And now he had come back to play for Mrs. Marling, though it was said she hadn’t always been very kind to him when he practised scales and exercises in the room above his father’s bakehouse. But all that was forgotten: Time had no revenges for Mrs. Marling; if he nourished any he relented at the last moment, and transformed them into bouquets. How attentively everyone was listening! Mrs. Pepperthwaite beat time with her forefinger, ecstatically aware of a harmony within herself more complete than the imperfect copy of it rendered by the strains around her. When the piece was over she would be the first to move across the room and congratulate the pianist. The right words would rise to her lips: that was the joy, the thrilling excitement and release, granted her by the party. What a triumph for Alice Marling! Mrs. Pepperthwaite felt that she and Mrs. Marling had been united for many years in a close bond which had for object the perfect and appropriate entertainment of all the choicer spirits in Settlemarsh. The executive power was Mrs. Marling’s, but surely the inspiration, the vital force, had been all hers! Mrs. Pepperthwaite gave Mrs. Marling, who was sitting at the far end of the room, a warm, confiding glance intended to convey this sense of partnership, and she fancied it was returned. The music was galloping ahead; a kind of recklessness had got into its rhythm, as though everything that went before had been provisional, looking forward to this. A loud brilliant passage was repeated twice as loudly and twice as brilliantly. The excitement which a perfect technique begets in the least musical of listeners was apparent on every face and in every pose. Mrs. Pepperthwaite scanned the guests, eagerly, even critically, as though about to visit with condign punishment the smallest sign of indifference or inattention. She was arranging her hands ready to clap when something jogged her elbow. The door against which she was standing was moving inwards. Someone was trying to come in. What a sacrilege at this moment of all moments. She peered round the door, fury written on her face, meaning to repel the intruder. Her outraged glance, travelling upwards, encountered the large yellowish face of Mr. Blandfoot, impending over her like a parchment lantern, in the dim light of the hall. She had completely forgotten his existence.