"The whole question of heredity is a frightfully serious one, of course, and we are in a stupendous muddle at the present time, with the inroads of the Lord knows who to muddy the stream." "Do you suppose that is the cause of the dry rot which has got into us?--Or is it that we are really rusting out?" "It is luxury and humanitarianism, and absence of national foes, which have sent us to sleep--and forgetfulness of dignity and duty. We eat the food of those whose fathers fed in our fathers' kitchens, and not because they are worthy and nice--that would be quite justifiable if so--but just because they are rich and have a superb chef, or because they are giving our younger sons a lift in the city--I loathe all money-making and trade--I am thankful that I, at least, can stand on my own feet, though I see the sad decadence in all around me--But I must not talk like this; it depresses and ages me!--By the way, Sterling had the impertinence to tell me that she thought my new toupées from Paris are too light!--What do you say, G.?" He looked at her critically, at the clever, shrewd, painted old face and the ridiculous girlish wig--and then he kissed her hand again, and told her the truth. Something about her words touched him infinitely. "I adore very dark hair when it is going grey, Seraphim. I have often thought how beautiful you would be if you burnt all those things. Your sense of humour is so supreme, they always seem incongruous." "I will, then, this very New Year, while we are at Blissington. It will be the sensation when we return to town. Sarah Lady Garribardine with snow-white hair!" "No, iron grey. It will make your eyes brighter." "It shall be done!" Then she laughed softly. "G., how goes it with Läo--you are not in love?" Mr. Strobridge shook his head regretfully. "Alas! not an atom. I fear it won't last until the Easter recess." "She is artificial." "Extremely." "And hopelessly vague." "Yes--but quite charming." "Beatrice says she pretends to be full of sex and other dreadful natural things--you always had fruity tastes, Beatrice avers!" "My tastes _are_ fruity, but are never gratified in these modern days, alas! She is quite wrong about Läo, though; she is as cold as ice. She smiles with equal sweetness upon the waiters when we are lunching at restaurants. She is merely a lovely woman demanding incense from all things male. "Beatrice said 'pretends,' remember--Beatrice is not at all dense!" "No, quite a subtle companion when not composing odes, or discussing the intensity of blue with Hebe Vermont." "--Are you glad Läo is coming for Christmas?" "Y--es. I shall want some of your very best champagne." "You shall have it, G., and I will try to make things difficult for you as a sort of appetiser. I have some kind of feeling that you are depressed, dear boy?--I am putting Läo in the parrot suite." "It will suit her admirably." Then they both laughed. "But you are depressed, G.?"