“Elizabeth loves a book full of thoroughly nice people— or black-dyed villains,” Stephen said teasingly.

“So do I, upon occasion. I think you’re in danger of becoming a decadent, Stephen. Bilious Byronism. Oh, Elizabeth, what a brilliant thought! Isn’t Stephen Byronic?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t read Byron.”

“Oh, but you should! He’s not at all without merit.”

“I don’t think I should care for his poems,” Elizabeth said primly.

Soon after that she suggested to Stephen that she should invite Lawrence and Miss Arden down for the week-end.

“And perhaps Auntie would stay on longer.”

It was the last thing in the world that Stephen desired just then, and he tried, selfishly, to postpone the invitation.

“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited until I’m through with my book?” he asked, thinking what death to inspiration Lawrence would be.

“But it would only be for a week-end, Stephen! And if Auntie stayed on longer she wouldn’t interfere with you.”

“Just as you like, darling.”

“Of course, if you don’t want them—”

“Rot, ’Lisbeth! If you’d like to have them to stay now, I’m perfectly agreeable.”

“I’ll write at once,” she said.

The invitation was accepted; the visit passed quite pleasantly. Stephen laid aside his work from Friday till Monday, and gave himself up to Lawrence. Miss Arden sat with Elizabeth in secluded corners, and talked little nothings.

When they had gone, other people, Stephen’s friends, began to invite themselves. The Tyrells drifted in quite unexpectedly one afternoon; Elizabeth was completely flustered, and somewhat annoyed. Stephen, on the other hand, was delighted. It did not matter to him that the visitors’ beds were not aired, or sufficient food provided for them. It did not seem to matter much to the Tyrells either, who were the maddest, most happy-go-lucky pair Elizabeth had ever met, but it drove the poor hostess to a frenzy. They dropped cigarette-ash on the carpet, they sat up late talking drama, poetry, and art till Elizabeth nearly dropped asleep from sheer boredom. Luckily the marmoset had met with an accident and died, so she was spared that intrusion into her neat home. She wondered what Aunt Anne would think could she but see Bertie Tyrell cross-legged on the floor, dangerously waving a coffee-cup in mid-air the better to point his arguments. She could hardly believe that it was really herself who entertained these oddities from another world. How much rather would she have held a quiet, sedate tea-party, where no guest would talk of Azurism, or Exposition of the Nude, or Gothic style of writing. What it was all about she had no idea. When she begged enlightenment of Stephen, he laughed, and assured her that no one knew, least of all the Tyrells.

“Are they talking nonsense, then?” she asked, puzzled.