Lady John held in her hand the top of the jade and silver tea-caddy. Hermione, as well as her aunt, knew that this top held four teaspoonsful of tea. Lady John filled it once, filled it twice, and turned the contents out each time into the gaping pot. Then, absent-mindedly, she paused, eyeing the approaching party,--that genial silver-haired despot, her husband, walking with Lord Borrodaile, the gawky girl between them, except when she paused to practise a drive. The fourth person, a short, compactly knit man, was lounging along several paces behind, but every now and then energetically shouting out his share in the conversation. The ground of Lady John's interest in the group seemed to consist in a half-mechanical counting of noses. Her eyes came back to the tea-table and she made a third addition to the jade and silver measure. 'We shall be only six for the first brew,' prompted the girl at her side. 'Paul Filey is mooning somewhere about the garden.' 'Oh!' 'Why do you say it like that?' Hermione's eyes rested a moment on the golfer who was bringing up the rear. He was younger than his rather set figure had at a distance proclaimed him. 'I was only thinking Dick Farnborough can't abide Paul,' said the girl. 'A typical product of the public school is hardly likely to appreciate an undisciplined creature with a streak of genius in him like Paul Filey.' 'Oh, I rather love him myself,' said the girl, lightly, 'only as Sophia says he does talk rather rot at times.' With her hand on the tea-urn, releasing a stream of boiling water into the pot, Lady John glanced over the small thickset angel that poised himself on one podgy foot upon the lid of the urn. 'Sophia's too free with her tongue. It's a mistake. It frightens people off.' 'Men, you mean?' 'Especially men.' 'I often think,' said the young woman, 'that men--all except Paul--would be more shocked at Sophia--if--she wasn't who she is.' 'No doubt,' agreed her aunt. 'Still I sympathize with her parents. I don't see how they'll ever marry her. She might just as well be Miss Jones--that girl--for all she makes of herself.' 'Yes; I've often thought so, too,' agreed Hermione, apparently conscious that the very most was made of _her_. 'She hasn't even been taught to walk.' Lady John was still watching the girl's approach. 'Yet she looks best out of doors,' said Hermione, firmly. 'Oh, yes! She comes into the drawing-room as if she were crossing a ploughed field!' 'All the same,' said Hermione, under her breath, 'when she _is_ indoors I'd rather see her walking than sitting.' 'You mean the way she crosses her legs?' 'Yes.' 'But that, too--it seems like so many other things, a question only of degree. Nobody objects to seeing a pair of neat ankles crossed--it looks rather nice and early Victorian. Nowadays lots of girls cross their knees--and nobody says anything. But Sophia crosses her--well, her _thighs_.' And the two women laughed understandingly.