She was completely self-possessed and never at a loss, and Lady Gale liked people who made mistakes. You always knew exactly what Alice would say or think about any subject under discussion. She had the absolutely sane and level-headed point of view that is so annoying to persons of impulsive judgment. Not that Lady Gale was impulsive; but she was wise enough to know that some of the best people were, and she distrusted old heads on young shoulders. Miss Du Cane had read enough to comment sensibly and with authority on the literature of the day. She let you express your opinion and then agreed or differed with the hinting of standards long ago formed and unflinchingly sustained, and some laughing assertion of her own ignorance that left you convinced of her wisdom. She always asserted that she was shallow, and shallowness was therefore the last fault of which she was ever accused. She cared for Tony, there was no doubt of that; but then, so did everybody. Lady Gale’s only doubt was lest she was a little too matter-of-fact about it all; but, after all, girls were very different nowadays, and the display of any emotion was the unpardonable sin. “Grouse! Hurray!” Tony displayed the menu. “The first of the year. I’m jolly glad I didn’t go up with Menzies to Scotland; it’s much better here, and I’m off shooting this year——” “That’s only because you always like the place you’re in better than any other possible place, Tony,” said Alice. “And I wish I had the virtue. Oh! those dreary months with mother at Baden! They’re hanging over me still.” “Well, I expect they gave your mother a great deal of pleasure, my dear,” said Lady Gale, “and that after all is something, even nowadays.” “No, they didn’t, that’s the worst of it. She didn’t want me a bit. There was old Lady Pomfret and Mrs. Rainer, and oh! lots of others; bridge, morning, noon, and night, and I used to wander about and mope.” “You ought to have been writing letters to Tony and me all the time,” said Rupert, laughing. “You’ll never get such a chance again.” “Well, I did, didn’t I, Tony? Speak up for me, there’s a brick!” “Well, I don’t know,” said Tony. “They were jolly short, and there didn’t seem to be much moping about it.” “That was to cheer you up. You didn’t want me to make you think that I was depressed, did you?” Sir Richard had finished his grouse and could turn his attention to other things. He complained of the brilliancy of the lights, and some of them were turned out. “Where’s your man, Tony?” said Rupert. “Let’s see him.” “Over there by the window—a man and a woman at a table by themselves—a big man, clean shaven. There, you can see him now, behind that long waiter—a pretty woman in white, laughing.” “Oh, well! He’s better than some,” Rupert grudgingly admitted. “Not so bad—strong, muscular, silent hero type—it’s a pretty woman.” He fastened his eye-glass, an attention that he always paid to anyone who really deserved it.