"Yes, Romer, on the whole I don't think our season's been a success. With any amount of struggle, worry, bother, clothes, motoring, and making up parties, we've just succeeded in not getting Daphne married to Van Buren, and putting your mother in a perpetual, constant, lasting bad temper."

"Have we?" said Romer.

He was sitting in an arm-chair listening, as usual, while Valentia talked. He did not always understand what she was saying, nor did he even always know the subject she was discussing, but he loved to hear her voice, that was like an incantation in his ears. He said a few words occasionally, desiring that the musical sound should continue.

"All our old friends seem to have grown dull and sensible except Harry, and he's been rather jerky and unsatisfactory—and all the new ones have turned out complete failures. When I say they're complete failures, of course I mean they've bored me. But, of course, it may not have been their object in life to do anything else."

"Yes."

"Look at Mr. Rathbone—a man like that, tattooed, and collecting old programmes of theatres. Well, he's as dull as ditchwater, perfectly stupid and always saying the right thing to the wrong people. Then Captain Foster, who seemed perfectly harmless and only decorative, turns out to be really dangerous, and to count. He's in love with Daphne, and he has got his mother, who is very weak and foolish and sentimental, round on his side, and Daphne's always going to tea or to lunch there, and they've utterly spoilt her—at least, her taste in hats has gone all wrong, and she told me that Mrs. Foster had pink paper shavings in her drawing-room fireplace, and asked me why I didn't have them too!"

"Really?"

"Yes. And though she's very good, I know it'll end in our having to give in, and a pretty wedding, and a tiny flat, and utter wretchedness! And Daphne will get to like old Mrs. Foster better than me, and they'll have five hundred a year at the most; and even if they aren't really miserable she'll have to gradually grow suburban, and come up to the theatre and have to rush off so as to catch the last train back to Boshan or Doddington or somewhere! I mean if they take a little house out of town—near Mrs. Foster. However, I'm not going to give in just yet.... I could understand a slight sacrifice—or even a big one if I were in love with Captain Foster, but I'm not. I suppose you'll say that I needn't be, but that isn't the point. The utter absurdity is that all Daphne wants of him she could see now. No one minds her seeing him. But why should she break up her life and spoil her future for it? Of course, that part is his idea. He is so selfish that he isn't satisfied with the harmless fun they have now, but wants her to live all her life in a sort of workman's cottage or tenement building just for the sake of the joy, privilege, and honour of having every meal with him!"

"What a brute!" said Romer mildly.

"Isn't he? And suppose a war broke out, and that darling, handsome boy perhaps put an end to suddenly by a bullet, or mentioned in despatches, or something, and promoted—oh, please don't talk to me about it any more, Romer. I hate the life. But I suppose she'll have to go her own way."

Valentia paused and looked pensively in the glass."And dear Van Buren, he's been pretty badly treated, I think. I suppose he knows it isn't my fault or Harry's. I try to make up for it in lots of ways—by getting him an introduction to the man who wants to fly across the Atlantic. I really hoped he would say to Van Buren, 'Fly with me!' but he didn't, and in the most roundabout way and by the most fearful lot of trouble—chiefly through me—he was asked to dinner to meet that other man—I forget his name, the one who keeps on discovering the North Pole. And it seems he is a dear, and awfully good-looking. And then he—Van, I mean—has met Bernard Shaw, and Graham White, and Lloyd George, and Thomas Hardy, and Sargent, and Lord Roberts, and Henry James, and even Gabrielle Ray, so he hasn't had such a bad time in London. I don't see that he has anything to complain of, do you, Romer?"

"Shouldn't think so."

"That was what he wanted, you know," continued Valentia. "But if we couldn't get him a wife as well, it's not our fault. I'm sure we've tried our best. He's such a dear, and very fond of England. He has been most useful to Harry, I'm sure; and——I think the new fashions are simply frightful. The new way they're going to do the hair will be revoltingly unbecoming, and the whole thing will make every one look hopelessly dowdy. The smarter you are, the more of a frump you will look!"

"Oh, I say, Val!"

"Yes, you will—I mean I will, but I won't.... Because I'm not going to follow the fashion like a sheep. And if you're not very careful I shall dress in a style of my own."

"Like a sheep! Do sheep follow the fashion?"

"Of course they do. Didn't you know that? What one does all the rest do. Of course it doesn't change so often—even in the best Southdown circles—at least we don't notice the change. When a new kind of 'baa' comes in and they all echo it we don't see any difference, but I don't suppose they see any difference in our fashions either. Oh, and Romer, I've been worried because I feel I've got so frightfully empty-headed and unintellectual through just living, never reading or thinking, when we go down to the Green Gate I shall read a lot of serious books. I'm going to read H. G. Wells, and Hichens, and Aristotle, and some history, and all sorts of 'improving' things. When are we going?"

"As soon as possible," said Romer, brightening up. "Let's go next Wednesday."

"Oh, I can't be ready quite as soon as that, Romer dear! Let's go on Tuesday. I'll arrange it all.""Good!" said Romer, beaming.

"And I'll get Harry to come down with us."

"Thought he was going yachting with the Walmers?"

"Oh no, he's not, after all.... He doesn't really care for the sea."

"Oh!"

"Harry, of course, is sorry for Van Buren," continued Valentia. "And yet he takes Daphne's part about Cyril Foster. He knows it's spoiling her, but he thinks she ought to be spoilt; he's so fond of Daphne."

"Why doesn't he marry her himself?" asked Romer.

"Harry?" She looked at him in surprise. "Why, Romer, what a harpist you are. If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, he never marries! Harry has a great many bad habits, goodness knows. But marrying isn't one of them."

"Do you think he's keen on some one else?" asked Romer after a rather long pause.

She seemed annoyed at the question, then smiled again.

"I don't know! The other day I called at the studio unexpectedly to ask for something I'd forgotten, and found Harry improvising at the piano—you know that way he has of improvising from memory—an inaccurate memory—of some well-known composer. I've never known him do it except when he wanted to—please some woman. Well, Lady Walmer was there, leaning over the piano and listening. Should you think from that he's keen, as you call it, on her?"

"Lady Walmer! At her age!"

"Why, Romer, she's no older than anybody else! It doesn't matter nowadays in the very slightest degree whether one is twenty-eight, or thirty-eight, or even forty-eight. To a modern man it's all exactly the same. Of course, if a flapper is what is required, well then, naturally, he must be shown to another department. But apart from that—why, Lady Walmer would be quite as dangerous a rival for me as a woman ten years or twenty years younger. And I'm not twenty-five yet."

"Rival to you? What do you mean?"

Romer stared at her, a spark of his fanatic admiration showing in his eyes.

She laughed and hurried on.

"Nothing. I never mean anything. I know what you think, Harry is not a marrying man, but he might become one. But a girl like Alec Walmer! With the figure of a suffragette and the mind of a canary who plays cricket, or a goose who goes in for golf——"

"Heaps of cash.""Yes, I know. But Harry's an artist—he needs sympathy."

"He's got his head screwed on the right way."

"But his heart's in the right place."

"What is the right place?"

"Don't be irritating, Romer. We'll go to the Green Gate on Monday then. And now I must go out and order a short tweed skirt, and a garden roller, and a few other things that we shall need in the country. Leave it all to me! No, I never forget anything; even your mother says I'm practical. And oh, do let's try and put her in a good temper before we go away. You'd better go and see her and say good-bye to-day, early in the afternoon, alone. And then I'll go in late and take away the impression of anything you've said wrong. Do you see, darling? Dear Romer!"

She went out of the room like a sunbeam in a hurry.

Romer followed her with a wondering expression. To him her movements, her hair, her eyes seemed to suggest some fascinating language he had not yet learnt. She seemed to him almost a magic creature.

As usual, he showed his sensations simply by obeying. He went to say good-bye to his mother.