ld not be pretended
that any hostess, let alone one so worldly-wise as Lady John Ulland,
would look to have the above-hinted high and delicate office performed
by so upright and downright--not to say so bony--a young woman, with
face so like a horse, and the stride of a grenadier. Under her short
leather-bound skirt the great brown-booted feet seemed shamelessly to
court attention--as it were out of malice to catch your eye, while
deliberately they trampled on the tenderest traditions clinging still
about the Weaker Sex.

Lady John held in her hand the top of the jade and silver tea-caddy.
Hermione, as well as her aunt, knew that this top held four teaspoonsful
of tea. Lady John filled it once, filled it twice, and turned the
contents out each time into the gaping pot. Then, absent-mindedly, she
paused, eyeing the approaching party,--that genial silver-haired despot,
her husband, walking with Lord Borrodaile, the gawky girl between them,
except when she paused to practise a drive. The fourth person, a short,
compactly knit man, was lounging along several paces behind, but every
now and then energetically shouting out his share in the conversation.
The ground of Lady John's interest in the group seemed to consist in a
half-mechanical counting of noses. Her eyes came back to the tea-table
and she made a third addition to the jade and silver measure.

'We shall be only six for the first brew,' prompted the girl at her
side.

'Paul Filey is mooning somewhere about the garden.'

'Oh!'

'Why do you say it like that?'

Hermione's eyes rested a moment on the golfer who was bringing up the
rear. He was younger than his rather set figure had at a distance
proclaimed him.

'I was only thinking Dick Farnborough can't abide Paul,' said the girl.

'A typical product of the public school is hardly likely to appreciate
an undisciplined creature with a streak of genius in him like Paul
Filey.'

'Oh, I rather love him myself,' said the girl, lightly, 'only as Sophia
says he does talk rather rot at times.'

With her hand on the tea-urn, releasing a stream of boiling water into
the pot, Lady John glanced over the small thickset angel that poised
himself on one podgy foot upon the lid of the urn.

'Sophia's too free with her tongue. It's a mistake. It frightens people
off.'

'Men, you mean?'

'Especially men.'

'I often think,' said the young woman, 'that men--all except Paul--would
be more shocked at Sophia--if--she was