ttention, and indeed with the
years has developed a friendly limp.

Of the other four ladies, all young and physically fair, two are
married. Mrs. Dearth is tall, of smouldering eye and fierce desires,
murky beasts lie in ambush in the labyrinths of her mind, she is a
white-faced gypsy with a husky voice, most beautiful when she is
sullen, and therefore frequently at her best. The other ladies when
in conclave refer to her as The Dearth. Mrs. Purdie is a safer
companion for the toddling kind of man. She is soft and pleading, and
would seek what she wants by laying her head on the loved one's
shoulder, while The Dearth might attain it with a pistol. A brighter
spirit than either is Joanna Trout who, when her affections are not
engaged, has a merry face and figure, but can dismiss them both at
the important moment, which is at the word 'love.' Then Joanna
quivers, her sense of humour ceases to beat and the dullest man may
go ahead. There remains Lady Caroline Laney of the disdainful poise,
lately from the enormously select school where they are taught to
pronounce their r's as w's; nothing else seems to be taught, but for
matrimonial success nothing else is necessary. Every woman who
pronounces r as w will find a mate; it appeals to all that is
chivalrous in man.

An old-fashioned gallantry induces us to accept from each of these
ladies her own estimate of herself, and fortunately it is favourable
in every case. This refers to their estimate of themselves up to the
hour of ten on the evening on which we first meet them; the estimate
may have changed temporarily by the time we part from them on the
following morning. What their mirrors say to each of them is, A dear
face, not classically perfect but abounding in that changing charm
which is the best type of English womanhood; here is a woman who has
seen and felt far more than her reticent nature readily betrays; she
sometimes smiles, but behind that concession, controlling it in a
manner hardly less than adorable, lurks the sigh called Knowledge; a
strangely interesting face, mysterious; a line for her tombstone
might be 'If I had been a man what adventures I could have had with
her who lies here.'

Are these ladies then so very alike? They would all deny it, so we
must take our own soundings. At this moment of their appearance in
the drawing-room at least they are alike in having a common interest.
No sooner has the dining-room door closed than purpose leaps to
thei