Quite a number of guests had been specially invited to meet Miss Verona Chandos at tea, and ladies connected with the railway, commissariat and telegraph departments were well to the fore; smart, dark young men, slender and effusive; gaily dressed women, their faces covered with powder and reeking of sickly scents. As Verona looked round the company she asked herself what she would have thought of this society a year ago? Of Mrs. De Castros, in a black crêpe hat trimmed with poppies, who drank loudly from her saucer, and put her tongue out at a friend; of Mistress Thomas, elaborately painted, wearing a very low white gown and a transparent blouse; of young Braganza Brown, the beau of the party, in a florid waistcoat with silver buttons, and a pink satin tie, scented and oiled like some ancient Roman dandy. Pussy was undoubtedly in her element, and giggled and talked incessantly, for she was a social favourite. "Fie! For shame! Pussee, whatt a noise you are making," expostulated Blanche. "Do be quiet." "Oh, Pussy," cried a girl, leaning over and addressing herself to her, "Dom is too grand to look at me now; she is always in the station; they say she will marry an officer. Whatt do you think?" "Aré Bap! don't ask me," cried Pussy; "ask Dom." "But I dare not. I hear Dom will sing at the concert," resumed the girl; "we shall all go and hear her, and pay eight annas. Whatt a voice; where _did_ she get it? where does she keep it?" "But I do not like it," interposed Ada Diaz; "it is so big, it hurts my head; and tell us, Pussy, who is the little officer so awfully in love with Dom?" "I believe it is quite a case!" added another uneasily. "Oh, I don't know," said Pussy, helping herself to sweets. "There is often some one in love with her, but she is so hard to please; she has such grand notions." On the other hand Blanche was saying: "Mother has so many engagements; she is going to buy another horse; one was enough for _me_, but she never grudges anything for Dominga; every one knows thatt. Now, Verona, do you come along; we are going to the railway tennis ground, and Mr. Bott wants you to play with him." Mr. Bott, a stout dark man, was the chief guest--and perfectly alive to his own importance. As Blanche pulled her sister's sleeve, she whispered, with a smothered giggle: "Five hundred rupees a month! He is baby's godfather, but you may marry him if you like!" and she pushed Verona before her. What an afternoon it had been--of pretension and make-believe, of civil speeches and staring eyes, of long whispers and sidelong looks, and of warm invitations, and strokings and flattery and painfully sustained effort. Verona was thankful when she and Pussy were at last ushered to the overworked victoria and driven home along the flat, white road to the sequestered bungalow in Manora; which now appeared to the miserable pleasure-goer a veritable harbour of refuge.