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on the highest heels, listening with docility to her authoritative contralto.

‘Here they come,’ said Monica cheerfully. ‘I feel specially pleased, Clive, when I see her friends, that Hester doesn’t paint her face.’

‘But it suits some women, don’t you think?’ said Clive. He got up with a little stumble of eagerness and came to look beside her. He could be grateful even for a negative tribute to Hester. ‘It’s rather too hot a day for Marcia’s make-up, isn’t it? Her mouth seems rather shifted. But Mrs. Travers is very crisp and neat.’

‘Yes; and it’s an amusing little face, with the straight fringe; like a Chinese baby, rather. Poor little creature. I’m afraid this venture of hers will be an uneasy one. Mr. Gales looks to me very unstable.’

Clive smiled. ‘They don’t expect stability, I imagine.’ He was loyal to them, but he did not identify himself with Hester’s friends.

Now they were all in the room, Mr. Gales still talking.

‘What a divine room!’ he cried, twirling about to look at it.—‘Grandmothers;—great-grand-mothers;—Hymns Ancient and Modern;—Mudie’s Circulating Library and bridal wreaths—all