“Rather a good idea, eh? I didn’t know her well before she married, and you managed to give me quite a wrong impression of her, anyhow. I always pictured her a demure little country mouse, with scarcely a squeak in her. Look at her now!” She put up her lorgnette. The rooms had thinned a little, and through the archway of the door they could both see Cecily, who, in the midst of a group of people, was talking animatedly. “That’s La Roche leaning over the sofa,” said Lady Wilmot. “You know La Roche? He’s the latest dramatic critic in Paris. Supposed to be very brilliant, I hear. Graeme introduced him, I imagine. Graeme’s a tremendous admirer. You see he doesn’t leave the field to La Roche, in spite of the introduction. And there’s Mayne, of course.” “Why ‘of course’?” inquired Robert, quickly. Lady Wilmot assumed an innocent expression. “Why not? Isn’t he your great friend, as well as Cecily’s?” “Certainly,” was Robert’s immediate reply. “He seems to be exploring London drawing-rooms instead of jungles, nowadays,” she continued. “Well, it’s a fine field, and the animals are even more dangerous!” “Good-bye, I must really go,” said Robert again, putting out his hand. “Must you? Nonsense,” she returned, ignoring it. “I’m so enjoying this little chat. I scarcely ever see you now. How does Philippa Burton answer as a secretary?” There was a gleam of interested amusement in her eyes as she put the question. “Excellently, thank you.” Lady Wilmot put her head on one side and levelled her lorgnette at Philippa. “Doesn’t look much like a secretary, does she? Her hair always reminds me of a crimped hearth-rug. And how on earth does she manage never to forget that stricken-deer expression about the eyes? It’s very effective, though. I don’t wonder that when she thinks of her son poor old Mrs----” She checked herself abruptly. “Oh, I forgot. I promised not to say a word about that.” “About what?” asked Robert, trying to conceal his anxiety. “Never mind, my dear. Sometimes I think I talk too much. But Philippa’s a precious little humbug, you know. Only you men are such gabies.” Her bright eyes sought his face inquisitively. “Did you see her doing the high and noble with Sam Nevern to-night? I didn’t know how to contain myself!” “I thought his name was Nigel?” “Samuel, my dear. Nigel for poetic purposes. I’ve known his family for years. Most respectable. Old Nevern made a lot of money in soap or candles, I forget which--both, perhaps. Sammy will come in for a nice little fortune, so he can afford to write bad poetry. Not really going? How tiresome of you.”