“I want to go home!” said Diana suddenly. “This sort of thing has got to be stopped!”

“Look here. Di, what are you driving at?” demanded her aggrieved partner. “What sort of thing—and why?”

“Nothing. I spoke without thinking. I’m awfully sorry, Stephen, but I don’t think I feel like dancing tonight. Anyway, not here.”

“Why ever didn’t you say so before?” said Stephen, relieved. “Of course, we’ll go somewhere else.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw George laugh at something his partner had said. She rose quickly.

“I’ve changed my mind. We’ll stay here. Come on, let’s dance!”

“You’re mad,” Stephen told her, but he led her out on to the floor.

Then Diana began to flirt with him, much to his surprise. Her eyes and her cheeks were bright; to all outward appearances she was enjoying herself to the top of her bent.

George saw her, and observed her gaiety. He tried to catch her eye—and failed. He didn’t know who her partner was, but he thought him an objectionable-looking fellow. He further thought that it would improve his appearance if someone were to hit him exceedingly hard between the eyes.

“I’m going to put a stop to this!” he said savagely.

The dancing instructress was bewildered. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t speaking to you. Would you say that I could dance yet?”

“Oh, you’re greatly improved!” she said. “Of course, you still want polish. Another six lessons ought to—”

“I’ll let you know about it,” he promised. “Er—I’ve just seen someone I know. Do you mind if I—?”

“Oh, not at all!” she shrugged. “As it happens, I’m engaged for the next dance.”

But when George, having deposited her outside, returned to the hall, Di and her partner were nowhere to be seen. She had fled, dragging Stephen with her.

“This,” said George, “is the limit.”

HE was staying at his club, so it did not take him long next morning to reach Mrs. Grafton’s flat. Mrs. Grafton received him with customary placidity.

“Ah, good morning, George! Dear me, how cross you look!”

“I want to see my wife,” said George.

“You're just too late,” answered Mrs. Grafton. “She’s gone.”

“Gone!” he almost shouted. “Where?”

“Don’t roar, George!” she reproved him. “She has gone to Mr. Haskin’s. She—er—does some work for him.”

“Oh, does she?” said George. “Is he a loutish-looking ass with horrible black hair, and a nose that—”

“Good gracious me, no! He’s as old as I am. Older.”

“Oh!” said George, rather appeased. “Where does he live? I insist on seeing my wife at once!”

“My dear boy, you needn't keep on saying ‘my wife’ like that. I’m perfectly aware of your relationship. Mr. Haskin lives in Bolton Gardens. No. 6.”

“Thanks,” said George, and walked to the door.

Mrs. Grafton went back to her household accounts with a wise smile on her lips.

Haskin had left the library to fetch a magnifying glass when George entered the house.