"Your daughter!" she repeated. "And a very nice daughter too. How fond she must be of you! I should, I know!" Here Miss Cremorne exchanged glances with Vanguard, and Sir Henry felt a vague uncomfortable consciousness that the society was too young for him; relieved, however, by virtuous disapproval of Frank's promiscuous intimacies, and a dawning conviction that, if there had ever been any tendency to such an arrangement, he was well out of him for a son-in-law. The sculptor now produced a velvet case of cigarettes which was handed round, and from which even the ladies did not disdain to take a few whiffs of the most fragrant tobacco in the world: Kilgarron only asking leave to indulge in a long strong Havanna, or "roofer," as he called it,--urging that to offer a man a cigarette when he wanted a cigar, was like giving him a slice of bread and butter when he asked for a beefsteak! "Nonsense!" argued Mrs. Battersea. "Half a loaf is better than no bread, and half a frolic than no fun,--consequently, half a puff is better than no smoke. What do _you_ say, Kate! That's your second cigarette already." The girl would have made a pretty picture, leaning back on the red velvet cushion of a sofa to which she had now betaken herself, while daintily holding the cigarette between her delicate fingers, she pursed up the rosiest and most provoking mouth imaginable to emit a long thin stream of aromatic smoke. "What do I say?" she repeated, looking meaningly at Frank Vanguard. "That I hate half-loaves, half-frolics, half-mouthfuls, half-measures in _everything_! All or none, say I. Take it or let it alone!" The foreign-looking woman tapped her snuff-box. "You're wrong," said she. "Everything in life is a matter of compromise. Besides, on _your_ principle, my dear, you'd have all your eggs in one basket. Suppose you drop it?" "What a mess there would be in the basket!" observed the sculptor. "They'd make an omelette _anyhow_," said Lord Kilgarron, mixing himself a brandy-and-soda at the side-board. "Besides, there are fresh ones laid every day," added Picard. "With chickens in them," continued Mrs. Battersea, "if you'll only have patience." "And after all, one egg is very like another," murmured Sir Henry somewhat hazily; "dress them how you please, there's generally a suspicion about them, and the freshest are rather tasteless at their best." Frank said nothing; but thought of the eggs he had most valued in the world, their basket, and its fate. Well, he had learned his lesson now. He must make the most of a pretty painted egg he had chosen to-night, from the shelf, indeed, rather than the nest, and must abide by his selection, defying memory, prudence, common sense--defying even the bright eyes, pleasant smiles, and winning whispers of Kate Cremorne.