“There you have Mrs. Clarendon’s last word,” remarked Ada Warren, without looking up. Her voice contrasted strangely with those which had been just heard; it was hard in tone, giving clear utterance to each syllable, as if to accentuate the irony in her observation. “Certainly,” said Isabel, with good humour; “if Rhoda is content to let it be.” Still biting her leaf, Miss Meres held her head a little on one side, and, after glancing at Ada, turned her eyes again upon Mrs. Clarendon. “But are you quite sure it is so, Mrs. Clarendon?” she urged. “I mean that ladies don’t go on to the stage? It used to be so, no doubt, but things have been changing. I’m sure I’ve heard that both ladies and gentlemen are beginning to take to acting nowadays. And I can’t see why they shouldn’t. It seems to be better than----” She stopped, and looked a little embarrassed. “Better than doing nothing at all, you were going to say,” Isabel supplied; “like myself, for instance? Perhaps it is. But I fancy that the ladies who go on to the stage are generally those who, for some reason or other, have lost their places in society.” “With a large S,” put in Ada, still without looking up. “Yes, a very large one,” assented Isabel, smiling. “And suppose,” exclaimed Rhoda, suddenly bold, “I don’t care anything about the society which spells itself with a large S.” Mrs. Clarendon shook her head indulgently. “My child, you can’t help caring about it.” “Not if I find something I like better outside it?” Mrs. Clarendon crossed her hands upon the paper, and sighed a little before speaking. “You think it would be nice to become a Bohemian, and live in contempt of us poor subjects of Mrs. Grundy. Rhoda, those Bohemians struggle for nothing so hard as to get into society. If they are successful, the best fruit of their success is an invitation to a lady’s ‘at home,’ the unsuccessful ones would give their ears to be received in the most commonplace little drawing-room. Now you have already what they strive for so desperately. You’ll see all this plainly enough when you know a little more of the world.” Rhoda turned away, and recommenced her pacing. “What does your father say to it?” Mrs. Clarendon asked, after a short silence. “Father? Oh! he shrugs his shoulders and looks puzzled. Poor father always does that, whatever the difficulty. If I ask him whether the butcher hasn’t charged us too much a pound for veal, he shrugs and looks puzzled. I believe he’d do just the same if I asked him whether to-morrow wasn’t going to be the Day of Judgment.” Isabel raised her forefinger with a warning smile. Ada Warren laughed. After another turn on the grass, the girl again paused before Mrs. Clarendon. “Mr. Lacour told me the other day that he thought of going on to the stage himself. He didn’t see any harm in it.” As she spoke, Rhoda examined the border of her hat.