An old-fashioned gallantry induces us to accept from each of these ladies her own estimate of herself, and fortunately it is favourable in every case. This refers to their estimate of themselves up to the hour of ten on the evening on which we first meet them; the estimate may have changed temporarily by the time we part from them on the following morning. What their mirrors say to each of them is, A dear face, not classically perfect but abounding in that changing charm which is the best type of English womanhood; here is a woman who has seen and felt far more than her reticent nature readily betrays; she sometimes smiles, but behind that concession, controlling it in a manner hardly less than adorable, lurks the sigh called Knowledge; a strangely interesting face, mysterious; a line for her tombstone might be 'If I had been a man what adventures I could have had with her who lies here.' Are these ladies then so very alike? They would all deny it, so we must take our own soundings. At this moment of their appearance in the drawing-room at least they are alike in having a common interest. No sooner has the dining-room door closed than purpose leaps to their eyes; oddly enough, the men having been got rid of, the drama begins. ALICE DEARTH (the darkest spirit but the bravest). We must not waste a second. Our minds are made up, I think? JOANNA. Now is the time. MRS. COADE (at once delighted and appalled). Yes, now if at all; but should we? ALICE. Certainly; and before the men come in. MABEL PURDIE. You don't think we should wait for the men? They are as much in it as we are. LADY CAROLINE (unlucky, as her opening remark is without a single r). Lob would be with them. If the thing is to be done at all it should be done now. MRS. COADE. IS it quite fair to Lob? After all, he is our host. JOANNA. Of course it isn't fair to him, but let's do it, Coady. MRS. COADE. Yes, let's do it! MABEL. Mrs. Dearth _is_ doing it. ALICE (who is writing out a telegram). Of course I am. The men are not coming, are they? JOANNA (reconnoitring). NO; your husband is having another glass of port. ALICE. I am sure he is. One of you ring, please. (The bold Joanna rings.) MRS. COADE. Poor Matey! LADY CAROLINE. He wichly desewves what he is about to get. JOANNA. He is coming! Don't all stand huddled together like conspirators. MRS. COADE. It is what we are! (Swiftly they find seats, and are sunk thereon like ladies waiting languidly for their lords when the doomed butler appears. He is a man of brawn, who could cast any one of them forth for a wager; but we are about to connive at the triumph of mind over matter.) ALICE (always at her best before "the bright face of danger"). Ah, Matey, I wish this telegram sent. MATEY (a general favourite). Very good, ma'am. The village post office closed at eight, but if your message is important-- ALICE. It is; and you are so clever, Matey, I am sure that you can persuade them to oblige you.