Lissa had had a 'Bank of Engraving' note palmed off on her by a pseudo-South American planter, and was rightly indignant. They were still talking of Camille de Valenciennes and of her misfortunes with the barber. Boys, the latest tip for Gatwick, 'what I said to him,' the furriers' sales, boys again . . . Victoria listened to the conversation. It still seemed like another world and yet her world. Here they were, she and the other atoms, hostile every one, and a blind centripetal force was kneading them together into a class. Yet any class was better than the isolation in which she lived. Why not go further, hear more? 'I say, you girls,' she said suddenly, 'you've never been to my place. Come and . . . no, not dine, it won't work . . . come and lunch with me next week.' Duckie smiled heavily. 'I don' min',' she said thickly. Zoé looked suspicious for a moment. 'Can I bring Fritz?' asked Lissa. 'No, we can't have Fritz,' said Victoria smiling. 'Ladies only.' 'I'm on,' said Zoé suddenly. 'I was afraid you were going to have a lot of swells in. Hate those shows. Never do you any good and you get so crumpled.' 'You might let me bring Fritz,' said Lissa querulously. 'No men,' said Victoria firmly. 'Wednesday at one o'clock. All square?' 'Thatawright,' remarked Duckie. 'Shut it Lissa. Fritzawright. Tellm its biz . . . bizness.' With some difficulty they hoisted Duckie into a cab and sent her off to Bloomsbury. As it drove off she popped her head out. 'Carriage paid,' she spluttered, 'or C. O. D.?' Zoé and Lissa walked away to the circus. On her little hall table, as Victoria went into her house, she found a note scrawled in pencil on some of her own notepaper. It was from Betty. It said that Farwell had been stricken down by a sudden illness and was sinking fast. His address followed. CHAPTER X IN a bed sitting-room at the top of an old house off the Waterloo Road three women were watching by the bedside of a man. One was dressed in rusty black; she was pale faced, crowned with light hair; the other, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, was middle-aged and very stout; her breast rolled like a billow in her half buttoned bodice. The third was beautiful, all in black, her sumptuous neck and shoulders bare. None of them moved for a moment. Then the beautiful woman threw back her cloak and her long jade earrings tinkled. The face on the pillow turned and opened its eyes. 'Victoria,' said a faint voice. 'Yes . . . are you better?' Victoria bent over the bed. The face was copper coloured; every bone seemed to start out. She could hardly recognise Farwell's rough hewn features. 'Not yet . . . soon,' said Farwell. He closed his eyes once more. 'What is it, Betty?' whispered Victoria. 'I don't know . . . hemorrhage they say.' 'It's all up mum,' whispered the landlady in Victoria's ear. 'Been ill two days only. Doctor said he wouldn't come again.'