"One hears of you on all sides," she said archly. "Oh, we all know about these little West Kensington visits of yours; there will be quite a scandal if you don’t take care. I suppose you’ll think we’re all dreadful gossips, but you can’t expect charming women to talk nothing but politics all day, can you? Personally, I always think a man wants a thorough change when he comes home. Suppose he’s in an office, for instance, why, the last thing in the world he should do when he gets back is to talk over troublesome business with his wife." "I’ve heard a good many unsympathetic and incapable wives urge that as an excuse for obvious neglect," said Farquharson dryly. "Well, I know I never let my father say a word about politics or anything he’s really interested in—it’s ever so much better for him to hear what I’ve been doing all day," said Dora, defending herself. "Salt, please." Miss Beadon reddened slightly and tried another tack. "You lazy person, there is some on your left. You’ve got an ally worth having in Evelyn Brand, by the bye. Father says he has never known even her work so hard. She’s rather an extraordinary person too, you know. She can make any one do anything she wants. Well, I suppose one shouldn’t say it"—she laughed consciously—"but pretty women generally can, can’t they?" "Mrs. Brand’s power doesn’t depend on mere looks," said Farquharson shortly. Across the table, as he spoke, he met the full look of her animated face, too pale for perfect beauty to-night, yet glowing with what, had he been a man whose mind lent itself readily to religious thoughts, he would have called the light of the spirit. There were other far prettier women present; there were many more notable in the world’s eyes. He looked with distaste at his colourless companion—her name would be published in the papers to-morrow and Evelyn’s omitted. Yet scarcely one topic of conversation was broached that night at table, of which Mrs. Brand had not some special knowledge—knowledge so eminently marketable that, had it been in her husband’s possession, the little West Kensington flat might soon have been exchanged for more congenial quarters. "Fancy your not admiring her," Miss Beadon rattled on, delighted. "She’s certainly very white to-night, and of course her features never were good. But if one’s fond of a person their looks make little or no difference to one. Love is the only permanent beauty doctor, I think." Miss Beadon always gave out her platitudes with the triumph of one throwing a searchlight on a gloomy corner. "Don’t you agree with me?" she asked coquettishly, mentally determining to bombard Meavy with the same phrase later.