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“Oh, I’m perfectly willing to give a little party,” said Marion now, looking speculatively about her. “Did you suggest a definite date?”

“Week from Saturday.” His dark eyes roamed the floor vaguely. “We can take up the rugs or something.”

“No.” She shook her head. “We’ll have a dinner, eight people, very formal and everything, and afterwards we’ll play cards.”

She was already speculating on whom to invite. Charley of course, being an artist, probably saw interesting people every day.

“We could have the Willoughbys,” she suggested doubtfully. “She’s on the stage or something—and he writes movies.”

“No—that’s not it,” objected Michael. “He probably meets that crowd at lunch and dinner every day until he’s sick of them. Besides, except for the Willoughbys, who else like that do we know? I’ve got a better idea. Let’s collect a few people who’ve drifted down here from home. They’ve all followed Charley’s career and they’d probably enjoy seeing him again. I’d like them to find out how natural and unspoiled he is after all.”