My life for the next three days consisted of just those things. Tony Wainwright was away, and did not show up until the afternoon of the dinner itself. By that time I was quietly frantic. When my fountain pen rolled under a leather sofa in what was now my office I crawled after it. Then I simply lay there, exhausted and using language which, as old Weaver used to say, was unfitting for a little lady.

I heard a cool voice behind and above me.

“Such nice legs,” it said reprovingly, “and such bad words. Dear, dear!”

I pulled myself out and sat up in a rage.

“Don’t worry about my legs,” I said furiously. “If you’re interested, they ache like the devil.”

“I wasn’t worrying. Miss Abbott, I believe?”

That was my first real view of Tony Wainwright, a tall, debonair young man with cool gray eyes and an amused smile.

“See here,” he said, “you’ve worked yourself into a fit. Why not come out and get some air? I’ve sent Maud up to bed. For a woman who has given parties most of her life, she’s a wreck. What’s the matter?”

I didn’t bother to tell him. I simply said I had thought of going somewhere, preferably to Burton, which is our local institution for mental illness. However, I would go outside, although if he mentioned dinner party to me I would probably burst into violent shrieks. After that I washed my face and hands in the lavatory off the office, while he watched the process with interest.

“Had an idea no girl used soap on her face any more,” he observed. “Must be the influence of the ads. Rather a nice skin, haven’t you?”

“It’s one of my great charms,” I said, and followed him outside.

That was the first time I had been inside the playhouse, which like everything about the Cloisters turned out to be much larger than I had thought. Built over the side of a small ravine, the roof of the indoor tennis court was not much higher than the rest. But it was much more than a pool and court. There was a long living-room, with a balcony over the court so observers could watch the players below, a game room with a bar, a small kitchen, and even two or three bedrooms with baths.

“For rowdy bachelors,” Tony said, watching me. “Ideal place for hangovers, isn’t it? Bed, breakfast, and a swim. Headache tablets in every room. My contribution.”

“It’s not what I would call a playhouse.”

“Well, what is play, my dear Miss Patricia?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I told him, and started back to the house.

Most of the return was in silence. I thought him patronizing and deliberately annoying, and he saw that I was irritated.

“Not very keen about me, are you?” he said, smiling down at me. “After I rescue you from under sofas and probably other furniture and take you for a walk. Is that gratitude?”