Miss Boyd was thirty. Her busy life had not caused the years to pass easily, and she looked older. But she was one of those plain women whose plainness does not matter. A gallant Frenchman had to her face called her a _belle laide_, and, far from denying the justness of his observation, she had been almost flattered. Her mouth was large, and she had little round bright eyes. Her skin was colourless and much disfigured by freckles. Her nose was long and thin. But her face was so kindly, her vivacity so attractive, that no one after ten minutes thought of her ugliness. You noticed then that her hair, though sprinkled with white, was pretty, and that her figure was exceedingly neat. She had good hands, very white and admirably formed, which she waved continually in the fervour of her gesticulation. Now that her means were adequate she took great pains with her dress, and her clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always beautiful. Her taste was so great, her tact so sure, that she was able to make the most of herself. She was determined that if people called her ugly they should be forced in the same breath to confess that she was perfectly gowned. Susie’s talent for dress was remarkable, and it was due to her influence that Margaret was arrayed always in the latest mode. The girl’s taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour was apt to run away with her discretion. Except for the display of Susie’s firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear nondescript garments of violent hue. But the older woman expressed herself with decision. “My dear, you won’t draw any the worse for wearing a well-made corset, and to surround your body with bands of grey flannel will certainly not increase your talent.” “But the fashion is so hideous,” smiled Margaret. “Fiddlesticks! The fashion is always beautiful. Last year it was beautiful to wear a hat like a pork-pie tipped over your nose; and next year, for all I know, it will be beautiful to wear a bonnet like a sitz-bath at the back of your head. Art has nothing to do with a smart frock, and whether a high-heeled pointed shoe commends itself or not to the painters in the quarter, it’s the only thing in which a woman’s foot looks really nice.” Susie Boyd vowed that she would not live with Margaret at all unless she let her see to the buying of her things. “And when you’re married, for heaven’s sake ask me to stay with you four times a year, so that I can see after your clothes. You’ll never keep your husband’s affection if you trust to your own judgment.” Miss Boyd’s reward had come the night before, when Margaret, coming home from dinner with Arthur, had repeated an observation of his. “How beautifully you’re dressed!” he had said. “I was rather afraid you’d be wearing art-serges.” “Of course you didn’t tell him that I insisted on buying every stitch you’d got on,” cried Susie.