developed into torture. Would it never end? She glanced from Miss Wangle, all graciousness and smiles, to Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, in her faded blue evening-frock, on to Miss Sikkum bare and abandoned. She heard Mr. Sefton's chatter, Mr. Bolton's laugh, Mr. Cordal's jaws and lips. She shuddered. Why did not she accept the opening of escape that now presented itself and marry Bowen? He could rescue her from all this and what it meant.
"And shall we all be asked to the wedding, Lord Bowen?"
It was again Miss Sikkum's thin voice that broke through the curtain of Patricia's thoughts.
"I hope all Miss Brent's friends will be there," replied Bowen diplomatically.
"And now we shall all have to fetch and carry for Miss Brent," laughed Mr. Bolton. "Am I your friend, Miss Brent?" he enquired.
"She always laughs at your jokes when nobody else can," snapped Miss Pilkington.
Everybody turned to the speaker, who during the whole meal had silently nursed her resentment at having been placed at the bottom of the table. Mr. Bolton looked crestfallen. Bowen looked across at Patricia and saw her smile sympathetically at Mr. Bolton.
"I think from what I have heard, Mr. Bolton," he said, "that you may regard yourself as one of the elect."
Patricia flashed Bowen a grateful look. Mr.
