“I’m so sorry, dear,” said Lady Coote placidly. “I’ve asked him now, so it can’t be helped. Pick up that ball of pink wool, will you, Oswald?”

Sir Oswald complied, his face black as thunder. He looked at his wife and hesitated. Lady Coote was placidly threading her wool needle.

“I particularly don’t want Thesiger down next weekend,” he said at last. “I’ve heard a good deal about him from Bateman. He was at school with him.”

“What did Mr. Bateman say?”

“He’d no good to say of him. In fact, he warned me very seriously against him.”

“He did, did he?” said Lady Coote thoughtfully.

“And I have the highest respect for Bateman’s judgment. I’ve never known him wrong.”