Mrs. Massarene sighed heavily; she was bewildered but she was obstinate. “Di’monds then?” she said tentatively. “None of them ever have enough di’monds. One might send her a standup thing for her head in di’monds--tira I think they call it; and say as how we are most grateful all of us, but you can’t be intimate because virtue’s more than rank.” Katherine rose with strong effort controlling the deep anger and the irresistible laughter which moved her. “We will talk of these things another time, dear,” she said after a moment. “Lady Mary will not be in London this season after Whitsuntide. Enid and May go out this year with their grandmother, Lady Chillingham.” “That’s just what she said,” cried her mother in triumph. “She said Lady Mary couldn’t show her nose at Court even to present her own girls!” “Who said so?” “Lady Kenilworth.” “Lady Kenilworth a purist! I fear she could give my poor Lady Mary a good many points----” “What do you mean? Lady Kenilworth knows the world.” “That no one doubts. And I dare say _she_ would take the tiara, my dear mother.” “I don’t understand you, and you have a very rude way of speaking.” “Forgive me, dear!” said her daughter with grace and penitence. “I do not like your guide, philosopher and friend, though she is one of the prettiest women I ever saw in my life.” “Well, you can’t say _she_ doesn’t go to Court,” cried Mrs. Massarene in triumph. “I am quite sure she will go to Court all her life,” replied Katherine Massarene--an answer on which her mother pondered darkly in silence. It must be meant for praise, it could not be meant for blame; and yet there was a tone in the speaker’s voice, a way of saying this apparently acquiescent and complimentary phrase, which troubled its hearer. “Her answer’s for all the world like a pail of fine milk spoilt by the cow having ate garlic,” thought Mrs. Massarene, her mind reverting to happy homely days in the dairy and the pastures with Blossom and Bee and Buttercup, where Courts were realms unknown. Katherine was silent. She felt the absolute impossibility of inducing her mother to make any stand against the way of life which to herself was so abhorrent; or even to make her comprehend the suffering it was to her finer and more sensitive nature. Her mother disliked the life because it worried her and made her feel foolish and incapable, but she could not reach any conception of the torture and degradation which it appeared to Katherine. If she had possessed any power, any influence, if she had been able to return in kind the insolence she winced under, and the patronage she so bitterly resented, things would have seemed different to her; but she could do nothing, she could only remain the passive though indignant spectator of what she abhorred.