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After some discussion they agreed on this plan and within an hour Marion had her first guest on the telephone:

“It’s to meet Charley Hart’s fiancée,” she explained. “Charley Hart, the artist. You see, he’s one of our oldest friends.”

As she began her preparations her enthusiasm grew. She rented a serving-maid to assure an impeccable service and persuaded the neighborhood florist to come in person and arrange the flowers. All the “people from home” had accepted eagerly and the number of guests had swollen to ten.

“What’ll we talk about, Michael?” she demanded nervously on the eve of the party. “Suppose everything goes wrong and everybody gets mad and goes home?”

He laughed.

“Nothing will. You see, these people all know each other—”

The phone on the table asserted itself and Michael picked up the receiver.

“Hello … why, hello, Charley.”

Marion sat up alertly in her chair.

“Is that so? Well, I’m very sorry. I’m very, very sorry…. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Can’t he come?” broke out Marion.