e to keep the Cadogan Square door shut against her
friend. She did not go so far as that; for she had a firm faith in
Pimpernel's cuteness and was aware that she would be found out. But she
remained passive and kept her eyes wide open.

Miss Schley was only going to act for a month in London. Her managers
had taken a theatre for her from the first of June till the first of
July. As she was to appear in a play she had already acted in all over
the States, and as her American company was coming over to support her,
she had nothing to do in the way of preparation. Having arrived early
in the year, she had nearly three months of idleness to enjoy. Her
conversation with Mrs. Wolfstein took place in the latter days of March.
And it was just at this period that Lady Holme began seriously to debate
whether she should, or should not, open her door to the American. She
knew Miss Schley was determined to come to her house. She knew her
house was one of those to which any woman setting out on the conquest of
London would wish to come. She did not want Miss Schley there, but she
resolved to invite her if peopled talked too much about her not being
invited. And she wished to be informed if they did. One day she spoke to
Robin Pierce about it. Lord Holme's treatment of Carey had not yet been
applied to him. They met at a private view in Bond Street, given by a
painter who was adored by the smart world, and, as yet, totally unknown
in every other circle. The exhibition was of portraits of beautiful
women, and all the beautiful women and their admirers crowded the rooms.
Both Lady Holme and Miss Schley had been included among the sitters of
the painter, and--was it by chance or design?--their portraits hung side
by side upon the brown-paper-covered walls. Lady Holme was not aware of
this when she caught Robin's eye through a crevice in the picture hats
and called him to her with a little nod.

"Is there tea?"

"Yes. In the last room."

"Take me there. Oh, there's Ashley Greaves. Avoid him, like a dear, till
I've looked at something."

Ashley Greaves was the painter. There was nothing of the Bohemian about
him. He looked like a heavy cavalry officer as he stood in the centre of
the room talking to a small, sharp-featured old lady in a poke bonnet.

"He's safe. Lady Blower's got hold of him."

"Poor wretch! She ought to have a keeper. Strong tea, Robin."

They found a settee in a corner walled in by the backs of tea-drinking
beau