"Pray, how do you know, Dolly?" demanded her sister, and her tone was authoritative. "Well, he wears a very badly knitted green tie, a shocking affair! I have remonstrated with him about it, and told him I will not be engaged to him unless he leaves it off; it entirely spoils his appearance, but he still clings to his green tie, and blushes when I chaff him, and looks quite hurt. I am perfectly convinced that _she_ made it. Does anyone know," laughing and looking round the room, "a young lady in this neighbourhood who knits ties?" Verona glanced instinctively at her sister and their eyes met. Dominga had been deeply interested in the conversation, and there was a tinge of colour in her cheeks which added to her appearance; she looked brilliantly handsome. Verona, aloof and ignored, had felt the irony of Mrs. Barwell's insolence eating into her very soul--and now rose to depart. "What," cried her hostess, "why are you going away? you know--I _asked_ you to tea." "Thank you very much, but we really cannot stay." She glanced imploringly at Dominga, who nevertheless remained rooted to her chair, and returned her sister's look with a stare of bold defiance. No, no! she would not stir. Seeing this _impasse_, Mrs. Barwell turned to Verona, and said: "I cannot let you run away like this--here is tea--do sit down, and don't be silly. I am sure you have no _other_ engagement!" In the meanwhile Miss Richards was talking to Dominga, and conversation now became general. Presently Dominga drew Miss Richards' attention to a photograph of her hostess, over which she went into audible raptures. Now Mrs. Barwell was not insensible to flattery, she liked to inhale it in strong doses. She was pleased to hear Dominga comparing her photograph to Mary Anderson--the comparison being considerably to her advantage. After all, "Red Chandos" was not a bad sort of girl; she was really beautifully dressed, undoubtedly handsome, and, if the men were to be believed, "great fun." She accorded one or two words to her visitor, and the favourable impression was deepened. "Oh, Mrs. Barwell," said Dominga, "I did so want to see your pretty room." Here was a half apology. "I'd heard so much about it--and it really is perfectly charming; I hope you don't mind my saying so." Mrs. Barwell did not mind at all, but coldly appropriated the compliment as her due, and Dominga--who would always be very useful in any house but her own--stood up, and began to help her with the tea things. "Mr. Salwey is stage manager, is he not?" said Mrs. Barwell. "Yes, and such a capital one," replied Mrs. Palgrave, as she helped herself to cake; "immovable, implacable, a sort of armour-plated man, whom nothing can ruffle! I wish you could have seen him to-day, when those two women were talking hard to one another about a certain scene, neither listening to one single word the other said. Mr. Salwey stood by, gently throwing in occasional blocks of solid sense." "Had it any effect?"