so poor. The
hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, might surely rank
among the millionaire's legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim,
and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she
had been the millionaire's housemaid for over forty years, overfed and
underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The
millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left
the whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she
died. The serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than
the playful--in a men's debate is the reverse more general?--but the
meeting broke up hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed
to their homes.

Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea
Bridge Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone
they were conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the
evening. They turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the
plane-trees, following the line of the embankment, struck a note of
dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were
here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled
out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the
rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It
is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than
here. As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to
be a vast theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was
performing, and they themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did
not mind losing a little of the second act.

"Cold?"

"No."

"Tired?"

"Doesn't matter."

The earnest girl's train rumbled away over the bridge, "I say, Helen--"

"Well?"

"Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?"

"I don't know."

"I think we won't."

"As you like."

"It's no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The
discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a
spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn't play
at friendship. No, it's no good."

"There's Mrs. Lanoline, too," Helen yawned. "So dull."

"Just so, and possibly worse than dull."

"I should like to know how he got hold of your card."

"But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella."

"Then did the card see the wife--"

"Helen, come to bed."