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‘So you are already fond of Hester. That is indeed a great step towards friendship.’ Monica could not quell the irony of her voice. The emotion with which she heard Celia’s guileless recital, touched with the breathless, headlong quality as it was—brought a sudden heat to her cheek. ‘I certainly didn’t like the dress; it was a dress suitable to the stage rather than to my little drawing-room; but I very much admired Hester in it; as did everyone present.’

Celia, arrested in her advocacy, looked at her askance. It reminded her of Clive’s look the day before.

Norah called them in to tea. The Fellows had arrived and Rosemary Dixon who bred Angora rabbits and read French memoirs. Monica sat down by Lady Tyler, a lean-faced woman harassed yet stimulated by unnecessary public cares. Her garden was her relaxation and Monica asked her at once about her gladioli so that there should be no danger of hearing about some new committee, and as she talked, her thought passed to and fro over the pictures Celia had put before it; Hester displaying her dress and pretending that it had been bought to please her:—Clive and Celia driving with Robin. Perhaps, on that Saturday, Hester and Ingpen had