“Ridiculous!” she ejaculated. “I should have thought there was enough scribbling in the family. Why doesn’t she look after her husband, and be a companion and helpmeet to him, instead of allowing another woman to come in and give the sympathy which only a wife--and all that kind of thing?” she concluded, hastily, becoming suddenly conscious of her companion’s amused eyes. It was a triumph for Rose. She had actually driven Lady Wilmot, of all people, into the ridiculous position of defending the domestic hearth, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that no one felt her position more keenly. She rose from the table, extending her hand with great cordiality. “Thank you so much for your delicious tea,” she said. “And I’m sure you’ll forgive me for rushing off in this unceremonious way. My train goes at half-past seven, and I _must_ get Cecily in, as well as socks and shoes and sashes and things. No, _don’t_ move. There’s such a crush to get through, and I can find my way out--truly. Good-bye.” She was gone, threading her way between the tea-tables, and smiling back at Lady Wilmot, who instantly summoned a bewildered waiter, upon whom she made a vague attack for indefinite shortcomings. Rose stepped into a hansom with a smile which already contained more bitterness than amusement. She was reviewing facts as interpreted by Lady Wilmot and company. CHAPTER XIII Philippa’s “studio” was a somewhat uncomfortable apartment with a north light. Its walls were covered with brown paper, upon which were pinned hasty little sketches by the latest geniuses. One recognized the _latest_ genius by the newness of the drawing-pins; the genius before last had generally lost one or even two of these aids to stability, and hung at a neglected angle. Above the mantelpiece there was a framed photograph of Rossetti’s _Proserpine_, whom Philippa was often thought to resemble. The floor of the room was stained, and over it at intervals were laid pieces of striped material of pseudo-Eastern manufacture, fringed and flimsy. The furniture was scanty, but high-principled in tone. It was that sort of uncomfortable furniture which has “exquisite simplicity of line,” and is affected by people who are more used to sitting on boards than sofas. There was an easel in a prominent position, and a cupboard with a glass front in a corner of the room, revealing various cups and bowls of coarse earthenware and foreign peasant manufacture. These were the cooking and eating utensils considered proper to the Simple Life. It was the expense of the Simple Life which Philippa was at the moment considering, as she sat curled up on the hearth-rug before the fire, a heap of bills and other annoying documents in her lap. It was half-past three in the afternoon, but she wore a dressing-gown of rather doubtful cleanliness, and her hair was bunched up as she had twisted and pinned it when she got out of bed.