The tea in the beginning was a commonplace festival; June knew better than to make her puppets talk seriously during its earlier stages. It was necessary for the Duchess to thaw somewhat; for Mrs. Moss to recover confidence. They must have pause. They had it, and discussed nonentities and silken politics. At last June felt the opportune time for action had come. She popped her crown upon the Duchess’s head, while Bim, armed with the wand, made himself comfortable in Mrs. Moss’s narrow lap. December was suddenly turned to May. Awkwardness went, geniality prevailed. The Duchess no longer wondered at having given the invitation, or spent suspicious thoughts on her visitor. Everything was natural, kind, and proper. June had won at last. "I am very glad you came, Mrs. Moss," she said heartily; "there is so much I want to talk to you about." "It’s very good of you to say so, dear Duchess," was the enthusiastic answer. Bim flourished the wand to stem a current of gush. Mrs. Moss pursed lips and waited. The Duchess in her brain was wondering what next her tongue would say. "Have you ever wondered," she asked, "how strange it is that people should go through life, and wilfully refuse to become better acquainted? Why should there be barriers between us or any people? Caste, class-distinctions, are merely artificial. ’The rank is but the guinea stamp,’ said Mr. Burns, the poet--it was quoted by the _Morning Post_ yesterday, in a striking article on ’The Aristocracy of Elfdom.’" "Was it?" said Mrs. Moss, who was puzzled at this line of talk. "Yes, and it is true." "Oh, Duchess, if--if a Duchess says so; but I shouldn’t have thought----" was the stammering reply. The poor lady was bewildered. Armingham’s Duchess had been in good report and ill, especially ill, the proudest of the proud; fair game and a favourite target for the derision and admiring envy of the merely smart. A thousand stories, increasing with piquancy as they aged, had been set afloat in illustration of her arrogance. Thousand-leaved fictions had blossomed about her. Her origin and upbringing were the kernels of many pretty tales. If rancour wished--as rancour frequently did wish--to hurl epithets at the coroneted caste, five to one the Duchess of Armingham was its pet Aunt Sally. No one in Society had been more pilloried, abused, and envied. The spite and verisimilitude of the attacks were quickened and strengthened by the supreme, unaffected indifference with which her Grace had disregarded them. Mrs. Moss, although she made social use of Geoffrey, had taken her share in throwing the garbage of scandal. She had often seen the Duchess on her drives through the Parks, and would have given much for a bowing acquaintance with her; but as that was not to be, she, in sheer chagrin, helped to increase the yellow stream of disparagement.