"_Il faut souffrir pour être belle, il faut souffrir encore plus pour être à la mode!_" said Goodwood, on her right, while Lady Egidia Hautton thought, "How bold that little Montolieu is!" and her sister, Lady Feodorowna, wondered what her cousin Goodwood _could_ see there. "I do not see the necessity," interrupted Flora, "and I certainly would never bow to the 'il faut.' I would make fashion follow me; I would not follow fashion." ("That child talks as though she were the Duchess of Amandine;" thought Lady Marabout, catching fragmentary portions across the table, the Marabout oral and oracular organs being always conveniently multiplied when she was armed cap à pie as a chaperone.) "Sir Philip, you talk as if you belonged to the 'nothing-is-new, and nothing-is-true, and it-don't-signify' class. I should have thought you were above the nil admirari affectation." "He admires, as we all do, when we find something that compels our homage," said Goodwood, with an emphasis that would have made the hearts of any of the Hereditary Princesses palpitate with gratification, but at which the ungrateful Petit Caporal only glanced at him a little surprisedly with her large hazel eyes, as though she by no means saw the point of the speech. Carruthers laughed: "Nil admirari? Oh no. I enjoy life, but then it is thanks to the clubs, my yacht, my cigar-case, my stud, a thousand things,--not thanks at all to Belgravia." "Complimentary to the Belgraviennes!" cried Flora, with a shrug of her shoulders. "They have not known how to amuse you, then?" "Ladies never _do_ amuse us!" sighed Carruthers. "_Tant pis pour nous!_" "Are you going to Lady Patchouli's this evening?" asked Goodwood. "I believe we are. I think Lady Marabout said so." "Then I shall exert myself, and go too. It will be a terrible bore--balls always are. But to waltz with _you_ I will try to encounter it!" Flora Montolieu arched her eyebrows, and gave him a little disdainful glance. "Lord Goodwood, do not be so sure that I shall waltz at all with you. If _you_ take vanity for wit, _I_ cannot accept discourtesy as compliment!" "Well hit, little lady!" thought Carruthers, with a mental bravissima. "What a speech!" thought Lady Marabout, across the table, as shocked as though a footman had dropped a cascade of iced hock over her. "You got it for once, Goodwood," laughed Carruthers, as they drove away in his tilbury. "You never had such a sharp brush as that." "By Jove, no! Positively it was quite a new sensation--refreshing, indeed! One grows so tired of the women who agree with one eternally. She's charming, on my word. Who _is_ she, Phil? In an heraldic sense, I mean." "My dear child, what could possess you to answer Lord Goodwood like that?" cried Lady Marabout, as her barouche rolled down Palace Gardens. "Possess me? The Demon of Mischief, I suppose." "But, my love, it was a wonderful compliment from him!"