y an
amateur who sings like Lady Holme."

She laid a slight emphasis on the word "amateur."

Lady Holme suddenly walked forward to an empty part of the drawing-room.
The elderly man, whose name was Sir Donald Ulford, made a movement as
if to follow her, then cleared his throat and stood still looking
after her. Lord Holme stuck out his under jaw. But Lady Cardington, the
white-haired woman spoke to him softly, and he leaned over to her and
replied. The sleek man, whose name was Mr. Bry, began to talk about
Tschaikowsky to Mrs. Henry Wolfstein, the woman with the red fan. He
uttered his remarks authoritatively in a slow and languid voice, looking
at the pointed toes of his shoes. Conversation became general.

Robin Pierce, the tall young man, stood alone for a few minutes. Two or
three times he glanced towards Lady Holme, who had sat down on a sofa,
and was opening and shutting a small silver box which she had picked up
from a table near her. Then he walked quietly up the room and sat down
beside her.

"Why on earth didn't you accompany yourself?" he asked in a low voice.
"You knew what a muddler that girl was, I suppose."

"Yes. She plays like a distracted black beetle--horrid creature!"

"Then--why?"

"I look ridiculous sitting at the piano."

"Ridiculous--you--"

"Well, I hold them far more when I stand up. They can't get away from me
then."

"And you'd rather have your singing ruined than part for a moment with a
scrap of your physical influence, of the influence that comes from your
beauty, not your talent--your face, not your soul. Viola, you're just
the same."

"Lady Holme," she said.

"P'sh! Why?"

"My little husband's fussy."

"And much you care if he is."

"Oh, yes, I do. He sprawls when he fusses and knocks things over, and
then, when I've soothed him, he always goes and does Sandow exercises
and gets bigger. And he's big enough as it is. I must keep him quiet."

"But you can't keep the other men quiet. With your face and your
voice--"

"Oh, it isn't the voice," she said with contempt.

He looked at her rather sadly.

"Why will you put such an exaggerated value on your appearance? Why will
you never allow that three-quarters at least of your attraction comes
from something else?"

"What?"

"Your personality--your self."

"My soul!" she said, suddenly putting on a farcically rapt and yearning
expression and speaking in a hollow, hungry voice. "Are we in the
prehistoric Eighties?"