George suddenly became aware that Mrs. Shobbe was beckoning to him from the couch. Some of the noisier guests had departed—probably to drink more freely—and a wide-opened window had carried away much of the tobacco smoke. George emerged from his reverie and went quickly over to her. “You know Mrs. Lamberton, don’t you, Mr. Winterbourne? And this is Miss Paston, Elizabeth Paston.” How-do-you-dos. “And oh, Mr. Winterbourne, will you get us some iced lemonade, please? We’re all dying of thirst in this smoky room.” George brought the drinks, and sat down in a chair facing the women. They chatted aimlessly. Soon Mrs. Shobbe went away. She saw a lonely old maid in the opposite corner of the room, and felt it “right” to talk to her. Mrs. Lamberton sighed. “Why does one come to these intellectual agapes? An expense of spirit in a waste of time.” “Now, Frances!” said Elizabeth, with her hard nervous little laugh, “you know you’d hate it if you weren’t asked.” “Besides, it’s one place where you’re sure not to meet your husband,” said George. “Oh, but then I _never_ see him. Only last week I had to ask the servants if Mr. Lamberton were still alive or only pre-occupied with a new conquest.” “And was he?” “What?” “Alive.” “I didn’t know he ever had been.” They laughed, though the paltry jest was near the truth. “And yet,” George pursued, with the ruthless clumsiness of youth, “you must have liked him once. Why? Why do women like men? And on what singular principle do they choose their husbands? Instinct? Self-interest?” Neither answered. Women do not like these questions, especially from young men whose duty it is to be dazzled by charms they cannot analyze. Of course, the questions were impertinent; but if a young man is not impertinent, what on earth is the use of him? The women lit cigarettes. George looked at Elizabeth Paston. A slender figure in red silk; black glossy hair drawn back from a high intellectual forehead; large, very intelligent dark eyes; a rather pale, rather Egyptian-looking face with prominent cheek bones, slightly sunken cheeks and full red lips; a nervous manner. She was one of those “near” virgins so common in the countries of sexual prohibition. Her hands were slender, the line from her ear to her chin exquisitely beautiful, her breasts too flat. She smoked cigarettes too rapidly, and had a way of sitting with a look of abstraction in a pose which showed off the lovely line of her throat and jaw. Her teeth were a little irregular. The delicate ear was like a frail pink shell under the dark sea-fronds of her hair. Her calves and ankles, such important indications of female character and temperament, were hidden under the long skirts of those days; but the bared arms and wrists were slender and a little sensual as they lay along her clothed thighs. George was greatly attracted. Apparently she also liked him, and Mrs. Lamberton noticed it with that swift rather devilish intuition of women. She rose to leave.