sorbing as Xingu is to us, it may be less interesting to—"
"Oh, no, on the contrary, I assure you," Osric Dane inter-
vened.
"—to others," Mrs. Ballinger finished firmly; "and we must
not allow our little meeting to end without persuading
Mrs. Dane to say a few words to us on a subject which,
to-day, is much more present in all our thoughts. I refer,
of course, to 'The Wings of Death.' "
The other members, animated by various degrees of the
same sentiment, and encouraged by the humanised mien
of their redoubtable guest, repeated after Mrs. Ballinger:
"Oh, yes, you really must talk to us a little about your
book."
Osric Dane's expression became as bored, though not
as haughty, as when her work had been previously men-
tioned. But before she could respond to Mrs. Ballinger's
request, Mrs. Roby had risen from her seat, and was
pulling down her veil over her frivolous nose.
"I'm so sorry," she said, advancing toward her hostess
with outstretched hand, "but before Mrs. Dane begins I
think I'd better run away. Unluckily, as you know, I haven't
read her books, so I should be at a terrible disadvantage
among you all, and besides, I've an engagement to play
bridge."
If Mrs. Roby had simply pleaded her ignorance of Osric
Dane's works as a reason for withdrawing, the Lunch
Club, in view of her recent prowess, might have approved
such evidence of discretion; but to couple this excuse
with the brazen announcement that she was foregoing
HYLAND
