“Dearest Monica, so glad to see you,” she cried. “All sorts of people are here, whom I’m sure I don’t know by sight, and I’ve just revoked at Bridge (double no trumps, too; isn’t it too dreadful!), and Suez Canal tried to bite the Prime Minister. Wasn’t it naughty? But, you see, Suez is a Radical,--though he shouldn’t bring politics into private life. Stella, I haven’t seen you for years. Yes; Martin’s going to play, of course. Have you heard his tune which imitates me talking in a very large hat? Simply heavenly; exactly like. Even Sunningdale awoke the other evening when he played it, and asked me what I was saying. How are you, Frank? No sign of relenting on the part of the obdurate father? How dreadful! Yes. Dearest Monica, how well you are looking, and how young! (“New _masseuse_,” she thought to herself. “I must worm it out.”) Do let us go and sit down. I’m sure everybody has come. Oh, there is the Spanish Ambassador. He killed his own father, you know,--shot him dead on the staircase, thinking he was a burglar, and came into all that immense property at the age of nineteen! How picturesque, was it not, and such a very Spanish thing to do! Such a good shot, too. How are you, señor? Yes; they are playing Bridge in the next room. And they say there is sure to be a dissolution in the autumn.” Lady Sunningdale poured out this spate of useful information in her usual manner, addressing her remarks indiscriminately to any one who happened to be near, and Lady Monica waited till the flood showed some sign of abating. She had a vague contempt for Lady Sunningdale’s “methods,” considering that she diffused herself too much. She never caught hold of anything and held tight till everybody else who wanted it let go from sheer fatigue, which was a favourite method of her own. On the other hand, Lady Sunningdale certainly managed to pick up a great many bright objects as she went along, even though she did drop them again almost immediately. “Do come away and talk to me, Violet,” said Lady Monica, when for a moment there was silence. “I came here entirely to have a confabulation with you.” “Yes, dear, by all means. I have heard nothing interesting for weeks except the things I’ve made up and told in confidence to somebody, which have eventually come round to me again, also in confidence. What’s it all about?” As soon as they had found a corner, Lady Monica, as her custom was, went quite straight to the point. “It’s about Stella,” she said. “Violet, I am afraid Stella is being silly.” “How, dear? Stella always seems to me so sensible. Such a lovely neck, too; quite like yours. Look, there is poor Harry Bentham. A lion bit his arm off, or was it South Africa?” Lady Sunningdale cast a roving eye in his direction, kissed the tips of her fingers, and motioned him not to come to her. Lady Monica waited without the least impatience till she had quite finished. Then she went on, exactly where she had left off.