Mrs. Shelf had, as usual, a concourse of men round her. She was a woman who deliberately cultivated the art of fascination, because it was essential to her ambition; and men are always willing to be dazzled and fascinated. They were laughing when Fairfax came up. She saw him from the corner of her eyes, but for the moment took no notice of him. She leaned forward and delivered another sentence to the men before her through the top feathers of her fan, which sent through them another thrill of merriment; and then shut the fan with a click and turned to Fairfax. The other men went away, still laughing, which was quite typical of Mrs. Shelf’s powers. She always concluded her audiences dramatically. No actress on the stage had more knowledge of how to bring about an artistic “curtain.” She watched them go with a smile of mild triumph, but when she turned to Fairfax this had flitted away. There was distinct annoyance on her face. “Why don’t you know these people here?” she asked. “Well, I suppose I may say that technically I do know Lady Latchford now. The chap who brought me introduced me to her. But of course she’ll have forgotten me by this time.” “Then why didn’t you stop and talk to her—amuse her—or, better still, be impertinent to her? You ought to have known the Latchfords before. Indeed, I thought you did; but to slip in like that, without a noise, was worse than a mistake—it was a crime. Don’t you know that the Latchfords are useful? Really, Hamilton, you make me angry. You never make the slightest effort to get on, and know people who will be useful to you, and all that.” Fairfax felt half amused, half annoyed. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what Amy will do with you when she marries,” Mrs. Shelf went on. “You’ve no dash about you, no smartness. If you are left to yourself, you may make money, but you will never make a name.” “I’m not a man,” said Fairfax, with a half-angry laugh, “who would ever walk about in spurs and blow a trumpet.”