"Awful smash, wasn't it?" continued he. "Gladys and I were very sorry. Good fellow, Home, he put her--me--up to an investment or two that turned out well. But there's no telling about girls; kittle cattle, you know, eh? I daresay she's awfully happy--what? And of course the man doesn't matter. Men are meant to go to the wall. Lord, how it rains!" Lady Ellington did not really mind rain; she knew too that even this man, whom she detested, had his vote in public opinion, and, what was more, he reflected public opinion, like some newspaper. What he said other people would say. She did not in the least want the vote of bohemian circles, any more than she wanted the vote of bishops; what she wanted to know was the general opinion of her class. A most elusive thing it was, and one on which it was intensely rash to risk a prophecy. For one person would be found with a stolen halter in her hand, and yet no one would say that the halter was dishonestly come by; another would but look over a hedge, and the whole world would say that the design was to steal horse and halter too. To which class did Madge, with her calm eyes, belong in the world's opinion? "Yes, of course, it has been terrible," she said. "My poor girl has gone so utterly astray. What could have been nicer than the marriage that was arranged?" "Well, she seems to have found something she thought nicer," said her companion. "Yes, but from the sensible point of view. Supposing you fell in love with a match girl----" Lord Ellington gave a loud, hoarse laugh. "Trust Gladys for hoofing her out of it in double quick time," he remarked. Yet this, too, was what Lady Ellington sought; vulgar, hopeless as the man was, he yet reflected the opinion of the average person, which it was her purpose to learn. For the votes of the "Moliere's housemaids" will always swamp those of the most enlightened critics, and the popularity of the play depends on them. And Lady Dover's house was a sort of central agency for such opinions; smart, respectable, and rich people congregated there, who were utterly conventional, not because they feared Mrs. Grundy, but because they were Mrs. Grundy--she herself, and no coloured imitation of her. The good old home-brewed, national, typical, English upper-class view of life might here really be said to have its fountain head, and to have stayed in the house was a sort of certificate that you were all right. Scandal might, just possibly, twitter afterwards about some one of Lady Dover's guests; but these twitterings would be harmless, for the knowledge that he or she about whom it twittered had stayed at Glen Callan would convince all right-minded people that there was nothing in it.