“I’ve often said,” Mrs Barleymoon from her ladder sarcastically let fall, “that Mrs Bedley has her pets!” “You are all my pets, my dear,” Mrs Bedley softly cooed. “Have you read _Men--my Delight_, Bessie?” Miss Hopkins asked, “by Cora Velasquez.” “No!” “It’s not perhaps a very.... It’s about two dark, and three fair, men,” she added vaguely. “Most women’s novels seem to run off the rails before they reach the end, and I’m not very fond of them,” Mrs Barleymoon said. “And anyway, dear, it’s out,” Mrs Bedley asserted. “_The Passing of Rose_ I read the other day,” Mrs Montgomery said, “and _so_ enjoyed it.” “Isn’t that one of Ronald Firbank’s books?” “No, dear, I don’t think it is. But I never remember an author’s name and I don’t think it matters!” “I suppose I’m getting squeamish! But this Ronald Firbank I can’t take to at all. _Valmouth!_ Was there ever a novel more coarse. I assure you I hadn’t gone very far when I had to put it down.” “It’s _out_,” Mrs Bedley suavely said, “as well,” she added, “as the rest of them.” “I once met him,” Miss Hopkins said, dilating slightly the _retinæ_ of her eyes: “He told me writing books was by no means easy!” Mrs Barleymoon shrugged. “Have you nothing more enthralling, Mrs Bedley,” she persuasively asked, “tucked away?” “Try _The Call of the Stage_, dear,” Mrs Bedley suggested. “You forget, Mrs Bedley,” Mrs Barleymoon replied, regarding solemnly her _crêpe_. “Or _Mary of the Manse_, dear.” “I’ve read _Mary of the Manse_ twice, Mrs Bedley--and I don’t propose to read it again.” “..........?” “..........!” Mrs Bedley became abstruse. “It’s dreadful how many poets take to drink,” she reflected. A sentiment to which her subscribers unanimously assented. “I’m taking _Men are Animals_, by the Hon. Mrs Victor Smythe, and _What Every Soldier Ought to Know_, Mrs Bedley,” Miss Hopkins breathed. “And I _The East is Whispering_,” Mrs Barleymoon in hopeless tones affirmed. “Robert Hitchinson! He’s a good author.” “Do you think so? I feel his books are all written in hotels with the bed unmade at the back of the chair.” “And I daresay you’re right, my dear.” “Well, Mrs Bedley, I must go--if I want to walk to my husband’s grave,” Mrs Barleymoon declared. “Poor Bessie Barleymoon,” Mrs Bedley sighed, after Mrs Barleymoon and Miss Hopkins had gone: “I fear she frets!” “We all have our trials, Mrs Bedley.” “And some more than others.” “Court life, Mrs Bedley, it’s a funny thing.” “It looks as though we may have an English Queen, Mrs Montgomery.” “I don’t believe it!” “Most of the daily prints I see are devoting leaders to the little dog the Princess Elsie sent out the other day.” “Odious, ill-mannered, horrid little beast....” “It seems, dear, he ran from room to room looking for her until he came to the prince’s door, where he just lay down and whined.” “And what does that prove, Mrs Bedley?”