"It’s no good to go out if you don’t go out with the right person," said Lady Wereminster. "One has always to pay a price for happiness, although it does not seem to cost much at the time. Women sign a blank cheque for it—a most foolish proceeding. It’s filled in by the recipient, and when the amount falls due there’s nothing left to meet it. But we are poor economists, and even spend ourselves if we have nothing else to spend." "I can’t have you two monopolizing each other all the evening," complained Dora Farquharson, looking up, aggrieved. "I wish those men would come up. How long they are. It’s always so dull without men. And you must both be longing to be let in to this evening’s secret—oh, perhaps you don’t even know there is a secret?" "If you know it, it can no longer be called one," said Lady Wereminster tartly. Dora bridled. "I think a woman should begin as she means to go on, in marriage. I told Richard from the first that I expected to know everything about his work—all the secrets, I mean; not the dull part." "And what did Mr. Farquharson say?" "Say!" Dora laughed. "Why, he never says anything. I suppose the so-called great people are usually dull and commonplace in private life. I always tell Richard that if I had only been allowed a trial trip in marriage I should never have said yes. He’s a dreadful old stay-at-home, you know; doesn’t really care to go out or to bother about one at all. He doesn’t realize what a change it means to a girl who has been accustomed to a whole train of admirers all her life." Lady Wereminster put up her lorgnette. "My dear Dora, don’t talk about your youth to a woman who was present at your christening." "Oh, she can afford to," said Evelyn gently. She slipped her hand into Mrs. Farquharson’s. "Are we ever to know the secret, Dora? and is it one that will please us all, or only you?"