Some description of the young lady must be attempted. The late Lord Beaumanoir had left his only child the freehold of a handsome house in London, some valuable town property, and a round sum securely invested in gilt-edged securities. The Beaumanoir estates and title passed to a distant kinsman. When she came of age, Lady Margot announced her intention of going “on her own.” Having plenty to “go on,” this announcement was acclaimed by poorer relations as indicating spirit and intelligence. Under cover of this chorus of praise, a few private loans were impetrated. Lady Margot lavished _largesse_ with amusing cynicism. “I must pay for my whistle,” she remarked to her intimates. “If I whistle the wrong tune, the poor dears will hold their tongues.” However, despite predictions to the contrary, she conducted herself circumspectly. It was true that minor poets were to be seen in her drawing-room and about her dining-table, with a sprinkling of artists, politicians, barristers, musicians, and novelists. She said that she liked to be amused. She had more than one flirtation. The “poor dears” feared that she had not treated her lovers well. She was accused of luring them on and then laughing at them. When reproached she replied modestly: “Really, you know, they are hunting comfortable board and lodging rather than little me.” Little she was, although _mignonne_ is a happier word. Her feet and hands were exquisite. It was said—perhaps truly—that Lady Margot bought her footwear from that mysterious personage who lives in Paris, and who has the effrontery to demand from his clients a big premium, cash on the nail, before he consents to supply them with shoes at a fabulous price. Her frocks were beyond compare, and she especially affected, in the evening, a vivid translucent emerald green that set off admirably the dead white of her complexion and her dark sparkling eyes and hair. Her portrait, by one of her admirers, was hung upon the line in the Royal Academy, and made the artist’s reputation while enhancing hers. About the time when she encountered our Wiltshire squire, Lady Margot was getting “fed up” with clever young men consumed by their own ambitions. In fine, they had ceased to amuse her. They ground their little axes too persistently. Indeed, she had captivated Sir Geoffrey at once by saying candidly: “You know, they wouldn’t be missed. The real world would wag on without them.” Sir Geoffrey was quite of her opinion. “Popinjays, my dear young lady, popinjays.”