the conversation general; and when there was a
pause she threw in just the right remark to set it going once more.
She was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump,
without being fat; she was not pretty, but her face was
pleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes.
Her skin was rather sallow. Her dark hair was elaborately dressed.
She was the only woman of the three whose face was
free of make-up, and by contrast with the others she seemed
simple and unaffected.

The dining-room was in the good taste of the period. It was
very severe. There was a high dado of white wood and a green
paper on which were etchings by Whistler in neat black frames.
The green curtains with their peacock design, hung in straight
lines, and the green carpet, in the pattern of which pale
rabbits frolicked among leafy trees, suggested the influence
of William Morris. There was blue delft on the chimney-piece.
At that time there must have been five hundred dining-rooms in
London decorated in exactly the same manner. It was chaste,
artistic, and dull.

When we left I walked away with Miss Waterford, and the fine
day and her new hat persuaded us to saunter through the Park.

"That was a very nice party," I said.

"Did you think the food was good? I told her that if she
wanted writers she must feed them well."

"Admirable advice," I answered. "But why does she want them?"

Miss Waterford shrugged her shoulders.

"She finds them amusing. She wants to be in the movement.
I fancy she's rather simple, poor dear, and she thinks we're
all wonderful. After all, it pleases her to ask us to luncheon,
and it doesn't hurt us. I like her for it."

Looking back, I think that Mrs. Strickland was the most
harmless of all the lion-hunters that pursue their quarry from
the rarefied heights of Hampstead to the nethermost studios of
Cheyne Walk. She had led a very quiet youth in the country,
and the books that came down from Mudie's Library brought with
them not only their own romance, but the romance of London.
She had a real passion for reading (rare in her kind, who for
the most part are more interested in the author than in his book,
in the painter than in his pictures), and she invented a
world of the imagination in which she lived with a freedom she
never acquired in the world of every day. When she came to
know writers it was like adventuring upon a stage which till
then she had known only from the other side of t