“Ah, that is just the little touch of bourgeois,” said Lady Condor. “It was wine, wasn’t it? Or was it something dried? And poor dear Roger is really so safe—yes—he would be terribly bored with a real _affair de cœur_. He would forget any woman for weeks if he were arranging a combination of elements to see if they would blow each other up. And if the poor woman made a scene, or uttered a word of reproach even, he would be off for good and all—pouf—just like that. And what good is that to any woman? I have told Nita so, but it is no good—no! Now if she had been married to Condor! Poor darling, he is perfectly helpless in the hands of anything in petticoats! It is not his fault. It is temperament, you know. All the Hawkhursts have very inflammable dispositions. And when he was younger, women were so silly about him! I used to pretend not to know, and I was always charming to them all. It worked admirably.” “I always admired your dignity, dear Marion,” said Mr. Fothersley. “_We_ have always shielded our men,” said Lady Condor, and she looked a very great lady indeed. “Our day is passing,” said Mr. Fothersley sadly. “I deplore it very much. Very much indeed.” “Fortunately”—Lady Condor pursued her reminiscences—“Condor has a sense of humour, which always prevented him making himself really ridiculous: that would have worried me. A man running round a woman looking like an amorous sheep! Where are my glasses, Arthur? And who is that girl over there, all legs and neck? Of course the present style of dress has its advantages—one has nothing on to lose. But where was I? Something about sheep? Oh yes, dear Condor. I have always been so thankful that when he lost his figure—he had a very fine figure as a young man you remember—he gave up all that sort of thing. You _must_, of course, if you have any sense of the ridiculous. But about Roger and Miss Seer. She is a woman with dignity. Now where can she have got it from? She seems to have been brought up between an orphan clergy school and some shop—was it old furniture?—something old I know. Not clothes—no—but something old. And some one said she had been a cook. But one can be anything these days.” “She is of gentle birth,” said Mr. Fothersley. “Her mother, I gather, was a Courthope, and the Seers seem to be quite good people—Irish I believe—but of good blood. It always tells.” “You never know which way,” said her Ladyship sagely. “Now look at my Uncle Marcus. Oh, there _is_ Miss Seer. Yes—I really don’t think we need worry. It would be difficult to be rude to her. There, you see—dear Nita is being quite nice! And Roger is quite safe with Condor and the pigs.” It was indeed late in the afternoon before North came upon Ruth, watching a set of tennis. “You don’t play?” he asked. “I never had the chance to learn any of the usual things,” she said, smiling. “I’m afraid I only came to-day with an ulterior motive. I want you to show me a photograph of Dick Carey.”