Lady Wilmot’s present guest was her niece, a sharp-faced little woman, who for two or three years had been living quietly in the country on account of her health. This fact at least was stimulating. It meant arrears of gossip to be retailed respecting the life-history of their common acquaintances, and since half-past one Lady Wilmot’s tongue had not been idle. The doings of the immediate family lasted through a protracted and hilarious lunch, and when, somewhat maimed and damaged, its members had been dismissed, there still remained the concentric circles of acquaintances. Lady Wilmot began at the inner rings. “You know Rose Summers is home?” she said, settling the fat cushions at her back with a view to lengthy comfort. “No, dear, _without_ her gaby of a husband. She’s left him out there to get into mischief. Oh, yes, my dear, he’s not too great a fool for that. None of them are. Did you never meet Jack Summers? A huge imbecile, you know. Over life-size, all body and no brains. The ideal man for a soldier.” “Rose had enough brains for two,” returned Mrs. Carruthers. “Yes, but no looks. Most unfortunate arrangement for a woman. She has to marry a man stupid enough not to know she’s got them. She’s staying with Cecily Kingslake.” “Oh, tell me about the Kingslakes,” asked Mrs. Carruthers, with interest. “They were just married the last time I met them. I used to think Cecily so pretty. _What_ a mistake to make such a poor match!” “You should see her now,” returned Lady Wilmot, composedly. “Gone off?” “Gone under. Buried beneath honeysuckle and green stuff. The worst of love in a cottage is that love doesn’t last, and the cottage does.” “But I thought Robert was getting on? Some one was talking about his last book the other day, and saying----” “Yes, quite lately he’s been making money. There was always a popular streak in Robert which only needed working. Some woman’s shown him where it lies, and he’s got it in full swing now, so the guineas are beginning to roll in.” “Why some woman?” Lady Wilmot chuckled. “Don’t you know our Robert? A clever woman laughs when she sees him coming.” “Susceptible?” “That’s putting it mildly. All men can take flattery in gigantic doses. Robert lives on it entirely. He dined here last night. Incidentally he ate his dinner, but his true meal was provided by the girl he took down, who flung at him _pounds_ of the best butter,--solid pounds. I blushed for her and trembled for him, but I might have spared myself the trouble. She’s too clever, and he has too good a digestion.” “Didn’t his wife come?” “No. He comes up to town ‘to read,’ if one may believe him. And I happened to have asked Philippa Burton and young Nevern in to dine last night--not a dinner-party--so I invited Robert too.” “Perhaps she’s the lady who inspires the new style of writing?” observed Mrs. Carruthers, building better than she knew.