Sallie, of course, was responsible. She really has very little sense of decency. “Imaginative, Temperamental, Unbalanced, Egotistical, Restless.” There was a short, deathly silence. “Did you mean it for Cousin Claire, Sallie?” said Martyn, at last. One felt it was something that he should even have put it in the form of a question. “Yes, but there’s something missing,” Sallie said, bright and interested and detached. She and her contemporaries dissect themselves freely, I believe, and they are always bright and interested and detached. “There were dozens of other things that I wanted to put down, all just as descriptive.” “My worst enemy could not call me egotistical,” said Claire, in a trembling voice. “And it’s neither true nor respectful, Sallie, to say such a thing. A game is a game, but you show me that I’m foolish to allow myself to take part in this sort of amusement with you, as though I were of your own age. You take advantage of it.” “My mistake, Cousin Claire,” said Sallie, not at all sorry, but evidently rather amused. “I just put what I really thought. It didn’t occur to me that you’d mind.” “Of course I don’t ‘mind,’ my child.” Claire’s voice had become a rapid staccato. “It makes me smile, that’s all. What do you mean by calling me ‘unbalanced?’ I suppose there isn’t a woman of my age anywhere to whom that word is less applicable.” “Hadn’t we better play at something else?” said Dolly Kendal. “I knew before we began that if anyone put in real people it wouldn’t be a success. That sort of thing always ends in somebody being offended.” “There’s no question of being offended,” said Claire, more offended than ever. “Mumma always made the rule, when we were children and used to play games like Consequences: present company always excepted.” “I should call that dull. But perhaps it was safe,” Sallie conceded. “Shall we try the other game? Choose a person, and then each do his or her portrait, and compare them afterwards.” The Kendals looked as though they did not think this likely to be a very great improvement upon Sallie’s last inspiration. “Do me,” said Sallie, shamelessly. “I think”--Mary’s gentle voice was unusually determined--“I think we will adopt Mrs. Kendal’s rule this time.” “Then let’s do that Mrs. Harter, who goes to tea with Mrs. Fazackerly. We all know her, don’t we?” “Only very slightly.” “All the more interesting.” “She really has personality,” said Claire, who had been silent, with compressed lips and a look of pain in her big dark eyes. I think she felt that no one was looking at her and so gave it up. “But you’ve never seen Mrs. Harter, have you?” Mary asked me. “No, but carry on. Who is Mrs. Harter?” “Old Ellison’s daughter. You remember Ellison, the plumber?” “Quite well. Is this the girl with the odd Christian name?”