“You ridiculous child,” spoiling her dignity completely, “who in the world started you to shake fingers in old beaux’ faces? And dressing like the adventuress in ‘Lights o’ London’? Do put on your rumpled blue serge and let’s go for a drive!” Thurley swept by him in indignation, Sam following and side-stepping her train. She wore a band of black jet in her carefully dressed hair and a gown of black to match, over which was a long cape of unspotted ermine. She stood beside the piano to draw on her gloves. “It isn’t fair to scold in front of a new maid,” she said, “and contradict me or not, Sam, I am grown up. I can’t go about like a flapper or keep on living in a hotel.” “What does Miss Clergy say?” Sam balanced himself first on his toes and then sank back on his heels. “She smiles, nods, agrees and never wants me to repay her. But, joy of joys, I can. For I’m going to be rich—really rich and I’m young; I have years in which to dash about without a thought as to rest or digestion. Don’t you approve?” She finished buttoning her gloves and proceeded to open a florist’s box critically to take notice of a corsage of yellow tea roses. “Mark does send such ultra things,” she complained languidly. At which Sam Sparling nearly upset himself by overbalancing and then came up to take hold of her shoulders as if she were a small boy in need of a trouncing. “Young lady, let an old beau give a word of advice. They say a word to the wise is sufficient and you were, formerly, wise and apple-cheeked and delicious. We all adored you. To-day I feel I ought to call you Lady Vere de Vere and tuck intriguing notes in that corsage, all that sort of thing ... my dear, play away, for it’s not to be wondered at, but don’t, oh, don’t, Thurley, let it supersede the real you. I remember Ernestine Christian had a whirl at it when she first came into prominence. Dear yes, jewels and furs that every woman envied—flirtations—a bit psychological were her flirtations as I remember; she particularly went in for Hindu poets and consuls. But flirtations, nevertheless! Then she used to give all manner of absurd parties—there was one in London that laid me up a fortnight. It began with ice cream and cordials and ended with the Lord Mayor of London’s own turtle soup—had it sent over by gold braided beadles and so on. You had to eat each course in a different spot. You were kept on the move, so to speak. I remember munching my alligator pear somewhere near the Tower of London, only to be whisked off to Whitechapel to be set up directly with the neatest sort of a game plate! Well, she tired of playing that way and one day she appeared at my dressing room in a rough tweed suit and a felt hat saying, “‘Sam, I’ve buttered buns in this hamper and pale, schoolboy sherry. Let’s walk until we’re so hungry that we’ll sit down and eat like beggars—and I can make a proper confession of what a fool I’ve been!’”