ng, so while at her own flat in the afternoon she was
photographed in a _decolletee_ tea-gown, this evening she was dressed as
if for Ascot, except for the hat, with an emaciated feather boa and a
tired embroidered _crepe de Chine_ scarf thrown over her shoulders,
also a fan, long gloves, and a rose in her hair by way of hedging. To
these ornaments she added a cold, of which she complained as soon as she
saw the other guests. But no one listened. No one ever listened to Miss
Luscombe, no one ever could, and yet in a way she was popular--a kind of
pet among a rather large circle of people. Women never disliked her
because she created no jealousy and always unconsciously put herself at
a disadvantage; men did not mind her prattle and coquettish airs, being
well aware that nothing was expected of them. For Miss Luscombe, though
vain, was a pessimist, and quite good-natured. She was also a standing
joke.

The other guests besides Valentia in yellow and Daphne in pink--both
looking as fresh as daisies and as civilised as orchids--consisted of
Lady Walmer, a smart, good-looking, commonplace woman, rather fatter
than she wished to be, but very straight-fronted, straightforward, and
sporting, with dark red hair and splendid jewels; a faded yet powerful
beauty who had been admired in the eighties, but had only had real
success since she turned forty-six.

With her was her daughter, a girl who at the first glance looked eight
feet high, but who really was not very much above the average length.
She was a splendid athlete, and her talk was principally of hockey. She
wore a very smart white dress and had a dark brown neck, pretty fair
hair, and an entirely unaffected bonhomie that quite carried off the
harshness of her want of style or charm--in fact it had a charm of its
own. Besides, it was well known that her grandmother had left her an
estate in the country and L 7000 a year, and that Lady Walmer was
anxious to get her married. Hence Miss Walmer never wanted for partners
at balls nor for attention anywhere, but--it was always for _le bon
motif_. As Valentia said, she was the sort of girl (poor girl!) that one
could only marry.

Hereford Vaughan, who was an object of considerable curiosity to several
of the guests on account of his phenomenal success in having eleven
plays at the same time being performed in London, New York, Berlin,
Paris, and every other European city, was, to those who did not know him
before, an agreeable