At the tea table Neville brought her a glass of sherry and a bite of something squashy; a number of people spoke to him and asked to be presented to Valerie. Her poise, her unconsciousness, the winning simplicity of her manner were noticed everywhere, and everywhere commented on. People betrayed a tendency to form groups around her; women, prepared by her unusual beauty for anything between mediocrity and inanity, were a little perplexed at her intelligence and candour. To Mrs, Hind-Willet's question she replied innocently: "To me there is no modern painter comparable to Mr. Neville, though I dearly love Wilson, Sorella and Querida." To Latimer Varyck's whimsical insistence she finally was obliged to admit that her reasons for not liking Richard Strauss were because she thought him ugly, uninspired, and disreputable, which unexpected truism practically stunned that harmless dilettante and so delighted Neville that he was obliged to disguise his mirth with a scowl directed at the ceiling. "Did I say anything very dreadful, Kelly?" she whispered, when opportunity offered. "No, you darling. I couldn't keep a civil face when you told the truth about Richard Strauss to that rickety old sensualist." [Illustration: "Her poise, her unconsciousness, the winning simplicity of her manner were noticed everywhere."] "I don't really know enough to criticise anything. But Mr. Varyck _would_ make me answer; and one must say something." Olaf Dennison, without preliminary, sat down at the piano, tossed aside his heavy hair, and gave a five-minute prelude to the second act of his new opera, "Yvonne of Bannalec." The opera might as well have been called Mamie of Hoboken, for all the music signified to Neville. Mrs. Hind-Willet, leaning over the chair where Valerie was seated, whispered fervently: "Isn't it graphic! The music describes an old Breton peasant going to market. You can hear the very click of his sabots and the gurgle of the cider in his jug. And that queer little slap-stick noise is where he's striking palms with another peasant bargaining for his cider." "But where does Yvonne come in?" inquired Valerie in soft bewilderment. "He's Yvonne's father," whispered Mrs. Hind-Willet. "The girl doesn't appear during the entire opera. It's a marvellously important advance beyond the tonal and graphic subtleties of Richard Strauss." Other earnest and worthy people consumed intervals of five minutes now and then; a "discuse,"--whom Neville insisted on calling a "disease,"--said a coy and rather dirty little French poem directly at her audience, leeringly assisted by an over-sophisticated piano accompaniment. "If that's modernity it's certainly naked and nervous enough," commented Neville, drily. "It's--it's perfectly horrid," murmured Valerie, the blush still lingering on cheek and brow. "I can't understand how intelligent people can even think about such things."