an idea in her head except vanity."

"But there are no men here," said Mrs. Wilkins, "so how can it be
improper? Have you noticed," she inquired of Mrs. Fisher, who
endeavoured to pretend she did not hear, "How difficult it is to be
improper without men?"

Mrs. Fisher neither answered her not looked at her; but Scrap
looked at her, and did that with her mouth which in any other mouth
would have been a fain grin. Seen from without, across the bowl of
nasturtiums, it was the most beautiful of brief and dimpled smiles.

She had a very alive sort of face, that one, thought Scrap,
observing Mrs. Wilkins with a dawn of interest. It was rather like a
field of corn swept by lights and shadows. Both she and the dark one,
Scrap noticed, had changed their clothes, but only in order to put on
silk jumpers. The same amount of trouble would have been enough to
dress them properly, reflected Scrap. Naturally they looked like
nothing on earth in the jumpers. It didn't matter what Mrs. Fisher
wore; indeed, the only thing for her, short of plumes and ermine, was
what she did wear. But these others were quite young still, and quite
attractive. They really definitely had faces. How different life
would be for them if they made the most of themselves instead of the
least. And yet--Scrap was suddenly bored, and turned away her thoughts
and absently ate toast. What did it matter? If you did make the most
of yourself, you only collected people round you who ended by wanting
to grab.

"I've had the most wonderful day," began Mrs. Wilkins, her eyes
shining.

Scrap lowered hers. "Oh," she thought, "she's going to gush."

"As though anybody were interested in her day," thought Mrs.
Fisher, lowering hers also.

In fact, whenever Mrs. Wilkins spoke Mrs. Fisher deliberately
cast down her eyes. Thus would she mark her disapproval. Besides, it
seemed the only safe thing to do with her eyes, for no one could tell
what the uncurbed creature would say next. That which she had just
said, for instance, about men--addressed too, to her--what could she
mean? Better not conjecture, thought Mrs. Fisher; and her eyes, though
cast down, yet saw Lady Caroline stretch out her hand to the Chianti
flask and fill her glass again.

Again. She had done it once already, and the fish was only just
going out of the room. Mrs. Fisher could see that the other respectable
member of the party, Mrs. Arbuthnot, was noticing it too. Mrs.
Arbuthnot w