She harped a good deal on friendship, as if to exaggerate her sense of its value, and send the hearer away with the notion that a pure friendship between man and woman was her ideal. I have, however, always had a keen instinct for the subtleties of female deception, and I was fully alive to the trend of her dissertations on friendship. They were the weapons she kept constantly in use for the defence of her character. She need not have been so careful, for the attacks and insinuations on her reputation were far fewer than she imagined. She was one of the chartered exceptions to the general demands of propriety. These exceptions exist to a certain degree, even in the most straight-laced society. She made some witty remark about the suburbs, that never-failing topic for the jests of those who consider themselves the elect of the social citadel of Mayfair. “I am a suburban,” I answered. “I was brought up in Clapham.” “You hardly suggest the suburbs,” she answered, unabashed. “Oh, believe me, there are people of distinction in the suburbs.” “Of course; only, one must have one’s little joke about them. Personally, I always tell my friends that they must not be too sure that they are free from the parochial because they dwell within hail of Piccadilly Circus.” “Still, I think that, after all, the Londoner has a quickness and intelligence denied to the provincial, don’t you?” “Yes, to the provincial, but not necessarily to the inhabitants of greater London. The guttersnipe of Manchester is a very stupid creature after your Cockney urchin.” We went upstairs and talked until her regular coterie dropped in. Sir Anthony Cross, whom I had met at Lady Pebworth’s, was one of the first to arrive. He did not like me, but, to my surprise, drew me into a corner. “Do you remember, Rank, that evening the Pebworths and ourselves went to the Gaiety?” “Perfectly.” “You bowed to an awfully pretty woman in the stalls. She was with a good-looking bounder.” I knew perfectly well whom he meant, of course; but, as he paused for me to refresh my memory, I looked puzzled. “You must remember—an extraordinarily pretty woman.” I still looked blank. “Surely you must remember. A fair woman with fluffy hair and enormous blue eyes, but not a bit dolly, like most fair women. Rather a large mouth.” “Oh yes; I think I remember.” “Well, I fancy she’s married to that man.” “If it’s the girl I think you mean, she is married to him. Her name is Sibella Holland.” It was not very well-bred to call Lionel Holland a bounder without first finding out if he was a friend of mine. “What a ripping name! They’ve got a flat below mine. I should very much like to know them.” “Do you want me to introduce you?”