"Why should they?" "Why shouldn't they? If we are good enough to teach their children, we are good enough for them. If they are interested in their children's welfare, they ought to make a point of knowing us to see what kind of influence we use." "Quite so." "Well?" "Well, my dear, there's only one thing to be said--they _don't_! As I told you before, there's a prejudice against mistresses. They give us credit for being clever, and cultivated, and hard-working; but they never grasp the fact that we are human girls, who would very much enjoy being frivolous for a change. I _have_ been asked out to tea at rare intervals, and the mothers have apologised for the ordinary conversation, and laboriously switched it on to books. I didn't want to talk books. I wanted to discuss hats and dresses, and fashionable intelligence, and sing comic songs, and play puss-in-the-corner, and be generally giddy and riotous; but my presence cast a wet blanket over the whole party, and we discussed Science and Art. Now I'm old and resigned, but it's hard on the new hands. I think it was rather brutal of your mother to let you come to London without taking the trouble of getting _some_ introductions. Don't mind me saying so, do you?" Claire smiled feebly. "You have said it, anyhow! I know it must seem unkind to anyone who does not know mother. She's really the kindest person in the world, but she's very easy-going, and apt to believe that everything will happen just as she wishes. She felt quite sure that Miss Farnborough and the staff would supply me with a whirl of gaiety. There _was_ one lady, who said she would write to a friend--" Cecil groaned deeply. "I know that friend. She comes from Sheffield. A dear kind friend who would love to have you out on holidays. A friend who takes a special interest in school-mistresses. A friend who gives such nice inter-est- ing parties, and would certainly send you a card if she knew your address. Was that it, my dear--was that the kind of friend?" Cecil chuckled with triumph at the sight of Claire's lengthening jaw. In truth there seemed something uncanny in so accurate a reproduction of Mrs Fanshawe's description. Was there, indeed, no such person? Did she exist purely as a dummy figure, to be dangled before the eyes of credulous beginners? Claire sighed, and buried her last lingering hope; and at that very moment the postman's rap sounded at the door, and a square white envelope was handed in, addressed in feminine handwriting to Miss Claire Gifford. Claire tore it open, pulled forth a white card, gasped and flushed, and tossed it across the table with a whoop of triumph. "Raven, look at that! What do you think now of your melancholy croaks?" Cecil picked up the card, inscribed with the orthodox printed lines, beneath which a few words had been written. Mrs Willoughby, At Home May 26th, 9 p.m. Music.