lady is a Mrs. Adams, her chaperon."

"Oh, then that's why her face seemed so familiar!" exclaimed Diana, a
light breaking in upon her. "I mean Miss de Gervais'--not the
chaperon's. Of course I must have seen her picture in the illustrated
papers dozens of times."

"And the man who was with them is Max Errington, who writes nearly all
the plays in which she takes part," chimed in Joan. "He's supposed to
be in love with her. That piece of information I acquired from Mrs.
Mowbray."

"I detest Mrs. Mowbray," said Diana, with sudden viciousness. "She's
the sort of person who has nothing whatever to talk about and spends
hours doing it."

The others laughed.

"She's rather a gas-bag, I must admit," acknowledged Stair. "But, you
know, a country doctor's wife is usually the emporium for all the local
gossip. It's expected of her."

"Then I'm sure Mrs. Mowbray will never disappoint any one. She fully
comes up to expectations," observed Diana grimly.

"I suppose we shall have to call on these new people at Red Gables,
Dad?" asked Joan, after a brief interval.

Diana bent her head suddenly over her plate to hide the scarlet flush
which flew into her cheeks at the suggestion. She would _not_ call