About half-way through dinner that night, Cecil de la Borne drew a long sigh of relief.

At last his misgivings were set at rest.

His party was going to be, was already, in fact, pronounced, a success.

A glance at his fair neighbour, however, who was lighting her third or fourth Russian cigarette since the caviare, sent a shiver of thankfulness through his whole being.

What a sensible fellow Andrew had been to clear out.