“We are happy, prosperous. Tim makes money, although brains, as a rule, are a positive hindrance to worldly success. We know lots of clever people. To them I am only Tim’s wife: I used to hope that he would be only my husband. We rush through society; he the kite, I the tail. I used to think I was clever--I’m merely voluble. I can’t even succeed in being positively stupid: in a brilliant age like this it’s a distinction to be unmistakably stupid. Nancy has been up to stay with me. I took her about. She made a tremendous sensation--with her complexion, her red locks, her gift of silence. People said she had an air, was uncommonly clever. She is going to be married to Mr. Minns, the Liddleshorn curate. And some people say that Mr. Jayne is to be married too--they talk of Maria Furlonger. Isabel Crisp has married that prig Egbert Turle. He has bought old Dr. Smith’s practice at Liddleshorn. Mrs. Turle--she came up with Nancy--says that old Gainah is wonderfully active, more active than ever. Why! You are nearly asleep. We’ll go upstairs. There is a room ready. Annie Jayne was to have spent the night here on Monday. She has at last decided to have false teeth--greatly against her will: her mother had only six stumps in her head when she died. But the baby--there’s another since your time--had an attack of rose rash, whatever that may be. It sounds pretty.” She led the way upstairs softly. The house was most luxurious, and the tail of her gown, as she swept it over the thick carpets, was like a molten stream of silver. Pamela fell asleep in a mahogany bed draped with some wonderful fabric full of color and of bold design. When she woke the sun was fierce in the room. Her limbs felt stiff and her head muddled. She started up on her elbow, looking wildly round for her own possessions--the big toilet table, the winged, ugly wardrobe with the long glass. Her tea-gown, all frilled and limp and pale on a chair by the bed, was eloquent. It brought back the nightmare: the person in brown; Sutton, with his atrocious proposal and disclosure; the long walk, the meeting with her hostess. She looked over the side of the bed. Her slippers were kicked off, soles upward. There was a round hole in one, the other had broken away at the side. Her black silk stockings, lying near, had holes, too. She fell back despairingly on the square pillow, its frill tickling her cheeks. Where was the use of waking? The door opened, and Barbara Clutton stole in. When she saw that her guest was awake she sat down on the edge of the bed. Then, as Pamela, like a child, lifted her face, she jumped up and kissed her gravely between the widely set, melancholy eyes.