"Oh, everybody will know it in forty-eight hours," said Dora, mollified; "but I think you are to be told to-night. It was Mr. Calvert’s plan; he thought the announcement would make rather a charming climax to the evening. What an old cat Lady Wereminster is," she added, watching her opponent withdraw to a distant corner and settle herself comfortably in an arm-chair with the evening paper. "She never has a kind word for anybody. Fancy her trying to snub me; luckily I can afford to overlook that sort of thing in my position. Why, they say Richard may be anything at this rate. Of course, after a time I shall make father resign in his favour; he’s nearly sixty-five, and no man’s really worth anything in politics at that age. Besides, he should make way for Richard. I’m very ambitious, you know; there’s nothing I don’t mean to get for my husband. Look what I’ve done for him already. He would never have been heard of but for that Albert Hall meeting. Oh, it’s no good talking of Taorna. Who in the world cares about Taorna except a few people on the Stock Exchange? I think it’s only my duty to impress upon Richard a proper sense of the obligation he’s under, don’t you?" There is a limit to endurance. "Obligation?" cried Evelyn indignantly. Mrs. Farquharson started. There was something in the other woman’s voice that struck even her as unusual. "You’ve married a man in a million, Dora; a man in whose dictionary the word impossible is unknown; whom people are proud to know; whom you told me you loved. I don’t believe he owes you anything, or any one else for that matter. If he did, there could be no possible question of obligation. In real love there’s no bickering over trifles; you give, if you must call it giving, as you breathe, and as easily. Oh, Dora, Dora"—she put her hand on the girl’s arm again—"don’t make the mistake most women do and quarrel over the ridiculous difference in the change of a letter or two between meum and tuum!" Mrs. Farquharson rose, with an assumption of dignity. "My dear Evelyn, if I didn’t know you so well, I should really think you were jealous. Never mind, dear; I’ll try to forget it. I was always one of your best friends, you know. By the bye, would you mind just putting a pin in my waist-band? It seems to have slipped somehow. Yes, it’s a pretty frock, isn’t it? But Paquin’s getting very tiresome; I had to send up for it three times. They said it took five women forty-eight hours each, sitting up all night, merely to finish that embroidery. That alone cost six guineas a yard—but it looks nice, doesn’t it? I always think you look so nice in that dear old frock of yours—you really do wear your things wonderfully, Evelyn." "Time makes one’s dresses become trusted friends," said Evelyn wearily. How useless either to protest with or advise such a woman! "Was that your husband’s voice?"