She was so very _décolletée_ as to figure for the type of self-renunciation offering to strip itself of all that it possessed. That was much, and much in little, yet much in evidence. Her bodice--what there was of it--was sewn with gems. Indeed, her judgment of the new-comers may have been tainted by the fact that madame had declined to be introduced to her--to her, the richest woman in the room. She was already fat, yet she swelled with righteousness. She suggested a little a meat pudding bulging from its basin. “Perhaps,” said timid Mrs Lawless, whom she addressed, “the French adhere to a standard of propriety that is only different from ours in degree. She may not mean any harm.” She spoke with anxious diffidence, conscious of the fact that at that very moment her son, Squire Bob Lawless, was dancing with Pamela. “Thank you, ma’am,” said Mrs Prodmore loftily, “but whether she means harm or not, I prefer, with my traditions, to consider such behaviour an outrage. Ignorance does not condone indelicacy.” In the meanwhile, the dance having come to an end, Pamela and her partner were strolled to within earshot of a saturnine young gentleman who stood glowering in a corner. “Ecod!” Mr Lawless was saying, “’twas the finest sport, miss. Two broke collar-bones and a splintered wrist, and all for the sake of experiment, as you might call it.” Pamela looked up with her soft eyes. “It is cruel,” she said. “I do not like fox-hunting at all--so many giants riding down the one little poor pigmy.” “Why,” said the other, in a surprised voice, “you’re wilful, miss. Wasn’t the point of it all that ’twas nought but a _drag_ hunt?” “_Comment_?” said Pamela. “With a herring,” explained the squire. “Well,” said Pamela, “that is just as cruel to the herring.” She turned round on the instant to the sound of a little explosion of laughter. “My lord!” she exclaimed. She dropped her companion’s arm; bowed graciously to him. “I commit myself to this escort,” she said. “A thousand thanks for the dance, monsieur.” Poor Nimrod had no choice but to accept his dismissal. He had crowed over his fellow-squireens. He must come down now, a humbled cockerel. He walked away sulkily enough. “Monsieur,” said Pamela to Ned, “I am glad to have amused you.” “It is for the first time this evening,” said his lordship grimly. She was beginning, in a little sputter of fire, “And pray what right have you----” when the expression in his face stopped her. A woman, no doubt, has some spiritual probe for testing the presence of love, as a butterfly feels for honey in a flower. “None whatever,” said Ned. “It is my unhappiness.” She looked at him quite kindly. The sweetest babies of pity sat in the blue flowers of her eyes.