For him the success of Beauty Incorporated brought two results: an income and a friend. Mr. Sheerug had rewarded his escapade at Brighton by allotting him shares in the company. The boom increased their value beyond all expectations; he found himself possessed of over three hundred pounds per annum. But the more valuable result was the knowledge of life which he gained from his friendship with Madame Josephine. To the world in general she was a notorious woman who had sinned splendidly and with discretion. She seemed to deny the advantages of virtue. Was she not beautiful? Was she not young? Hadn’t she wealth? Teddy had come to an age when youth tests the conventions; it was Madame Josephine who answered his doubts on the subject. The Madame Josephine he knew was a white-haired old lady who liked him to treat her as a grandmother. She would talk to him by the hour about books and dead people, and sometimes about love. There was an adventure in going to see her, for she only dared to be old in his presence--to the rest of the world it was her profession to be young. As Duke Nineveh was always telling her, appearances had to be kept up. She had a secret room at the top of her house to which Teddy alone was admitted. The servants were ignorant of what went on there. They invented legends. He had to speak his name distinctly; then a chair would be pushed back, footsteps would sound, and the key would turn. The moment he was across the threshold, the lock grated behind him. And there, after all these mysteries, was an old lady, sweet-featured and wistful-looking--an old lady who an hour before had been admired for her youth by the London crowds. Hanging from the ceiling was a cage with a canary. On the sill were flower-boxes. From the window, across trees, one could catch a glimpse of Kensington Gardens and the blown petals of children. It was an old lady’s room, filled with memories. On the walls were faded photographs with spidery signatures; on the table a work-basket; beside the table a rocking chair. “Here’s where my soul lives,” she said. “The other person, phew!” Her hands opened expressively. “She’s the husk. Those who live to please, must please to live, Teddy. It’s a terrible thing to have to go on shamming when you’re seventy--shamming you’re gay, shamming you’re flippant, shamming you’re wicked. So few things matter when you’re seventy. Money doesn’t.” She caught the question in his eyes. “Ah, my dear, but when all your life has been lived for adoration, you miss it The poison’s in the blood. At my age one has to pay a long price even for what looks like love.”