an era hung about. There was still a fixed period in
women's lives when they suddenly assumed a new identity--became old
maids and were expected to dress the part. It was twenty-eight, to the
best of our recollection. Therefore Miss Smith-Dickenson, who was
thirty-eight if she was a minute, became a convicted impostor in the
eyes of the Hon. Percival, when, about ten hours after he had said to
himself that she was not a bad figure of a woman and that some of her
remarks were racy, he perceived that she was going off; that her
complexion didn't bear the daylight; that she wouldn't wash; that she
was probably a favourite with her own sex, and, broadly speaking, an
Intelligent Person. "Never do at all!" said the Hon. Percival to
himself. And Space may have asked "What for?" But nobody answered.

On the other hand, the lady perceived, in time, that the gentleman
looked ten years older by daylight; that no one could call him corpulent
exactly; that he might be heavy on hand, only perhaps he wanted his
breakfast--men did; that the Pall Mall and Piccadilly type of man very
soon palled, and that, in short, that steam-tug would be quite
unnecessary this time.

Therefore, when Lady Gwendolen appeared, _point-device_ for breakfast as
to dress, but looking dazed and preoccupied, she found this lady and
gentleman being well-bred, as shown by scanty, feelingless remarks about
the absence of morning papers as well as morning people. Her advent
opened a new era for them, in which they could cultivate ignorance of
one another on the bosom of a newcomer common to both.

"Only you two!" said the newcomer; which Miss Dickenson thought scarcely
delicate, considering the respective sexes of the persons addressed. "I
knew I was late, but I couldn't help it. Good-morning, Aunt Constance."
She gave and got a kiss. The Hon. Percival would have liked the former
for himself. Why need he have slightly flouted its receiver by a mental
note that he would not have cared about its _riposte_? It had not been
offered.

"How well you _are_ looking, dear!" said Aunt Constance, holding her
honorary niece at arms' length to visualise her robustness. She was not
a real Aunt at all, only an old friend of the family.

"I'm not," said Gwendolen. "Norbury, is breakfast ready? Shall we go
in?... Oh no, nothing! Please don't talk to me about it. I mean I'm all
right. Ask Sir Coupland to tell you." For the great surgeon had come
into the room, and was talking i