y so many of us marry authors or
newspapermen and lead miserable lives." Miss Broadwood saw that she had
rather disconcerted Imogen, and blithely tacked in another direction.
"You see," she went on, tossing aside her half-consumed cigarette, "some
years ago Flavia would not have deemed me worthy to open the pages of
your thesis--nor to be one of her house party of the chosen, for that
matter. I've Pinero to thank for both pleasures. It all depends on the
class of business I'm playing whether I'm in favor or not. Flavia is
my second cousin, you know, so I can say whatever disagreeable things I
choose with perfect good grace. I'm quite desperate for someone to laugh
with, so I'm going to fasten myself upon you--for, of course, one can't
expect any of these gypsy-dago people to see anything funny. I don't
intend you shall lose the humor of the situation. What do you think of
Flavia's infirmary for the arts, anyway?"

"Well, it's rather too soon for me to have any opinion at all," said
Imogen, as she again turned to her dressing. "So far, you are the only
one of the artists I've met."

"One of them?" echoed Miss Broadwood. "One of the _artists_? My offense
may be rank, my dear, but I really don't deserve that. Come, now,
whatever badges of my tribe I may bear upon me, just let me divest you
of any notion that I take myself seriously."

Imogen turned from the mirror in blank astonishment and sat down on the
arm of a chair, facing her visitor. "I can't fathom you at all,
Miss Broadwood," she said frankly. "Why shouldn't you take yourself
seriously? What's the use of beating about the bush? Surely you know
that you are one of the few players on this side of the water who have
at all the spirit of natural or ingenuous comedy?"

"Thank you, my dear. Now we are quite even about the thesis, aren't
we? Oh, did you mean it? Well, you _are_ a clever girl. But you see it
doesn't do to permit oneself to look at it in that light. If we do, we
always go to pieces and waste our substance astarring as the unhappy
daughter of the Capulets. But there, I hear Flavia coming to take you
down; and just remember I'm not one of them--the artists, I mean."

Flavia conducted Imogen and Miss Broadwood downstairs. As they reached
the lower hall they heard voices from the music room, and dim figures
were lurking in the shadows under the gallery, but their hostess led
straight to the smoking room. The June evening was chilly, and a fire
had been