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 to carry it through when confronted by the extremely unpredictable temperament of Imperia Starling, to say nothing of the determined, and lately impertinent, Herbert Ringrose.

His perturbation was considerably enhanced, as the taxi turned a corner of the drive and the house sprang into view, by the sight of a solitary figure poised precariously on the terrace, that of Mama Starling, clad in black, apparently scanning the horizon for his reappearance. There was something about her manner that suggested Brangaene warning the guilty Isolde. Descending from the motor he was conscious, even as he turned his back to pay the chauffeur, of her unsteady approach. She leaned towards him confidentially, the bearer of woeful tidings.

You're going to catch it! she whispered hoarsely. I'm sorry for you, but don't be afraid of her. I tell you she likes you. Buck up and sass her. It'll do her good! She'll throw a fit of hysterics and maybe bust a vase or two, but she'll get over it.

Prepared as he was in a measure for din and disaster, Ambrose was shattered anew by this prophetic vision of the future and he followed the sibyl into the house with a dejected air which did not promise much for a prospective display of spirit. In the great