were unnecessarily solid. In the hall were
pillars which looked as if they were made of brawn, and arches
with lozenges of azure paint in which golden stars appeared rather
meretriciously. A plaster statue of Hebe, with crinkly hair and staring
eyeballs, stood in a corner without improving matters. That part of the
staircase which was not concealed by the brown carpet was dirty white.
An immense oil painting of a heap of dead pheasants, rabbits and wild
duck, lying beside a gun and a pair of leather gaiters, immediately
faced the hall door, which was opened by two enormous men with yellow
complexions and dissipated eyes. Mrs. Wolfstein was at home, and one
of the enormous men lethargically showed Lady Holme upstairs into a
drawing-room which suggested a Gordon Hotel. She waited for about five
minutes on a brown and yellow sofa near a table on which lay some books
and several paper-knives, and then Mrs. Wolfstein appeared. She was
dressed very smartly in blue and red, and looked either Oriental or
Portuguese, as she came in. Lady Holme was not quite certain which.

"Dear person!" she said, taking Lady Holme's hands in hers, which were
covered with unusually large rings. "Now, I've got a confession to make.
What a delicious hat!"

Lady Holme felt certain the confession was of something unpleasant,
but she only said, in the rather languid manner she generally affected
towards women:

"Well? My ear is at the grating."

"My lunch is at the Carlton."

Lady Holme was pleased. At the Carlton one can always look about.

"And--it's a woman's lunch."

Lady Holme's countenance fell quite frankly.

"I knew you'd be horrified. You think us such bores, and so we are. But
I couldn't resist being malicious to win such a triumph. You at a hen
lunch! It'll be the talk of London. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course."

"And can you stand it?"

Lady Holme looked definitely dubious.

"I'll tell you who'll be there--Lady Cardington, Lady Manby, Mrs.
Trent--do you know her? Spanish looking, and's divorced two husbands,
and's called the scarlet woman because she always dresses in red--Sally
Perceval, Miss Burns and Pimpernel Schley."

"Pimpernel Schley! Who is she?"

"The American actress who plays all the improper modern parts. Directly
a piece is produced in Paris that we run over to see--you know the sort!
the Grand Duke and foreign Royalty species--she has it adapted for her.
Of course it's Bowdlerised as to words, but she man