‘Of course! what else were they made for? La Marina, who kicks up her skirts, and hits her nose with the point of her big toe, is far more of a woman, I take it, and certainly more to the taste of a man, than the insolent, brilliant, superior Delicia Vaughan!’ ‘Oh! You admit she is brilliant and superior?’ said the stout critic, with a smile. ‘Well, you know that’s saying a great deal! I’m an old-fashioned man—’ ‘Of course you are!’ put in a young fellow, standing near. ‘You like to believe there may be good women,—real angels,—on earth; you like to believe it, and so do I!’ He was a fresh-coloured youth, lately come up to London from the provinces to try his hand at literature; and the individual with the _Referee_, who had started the conversation, glanced him over with the supremest contempt. ‘I hope your mother’s in town to take care of you, you ninny,’ he said. ‘You’re a very callow bird!’ The young man laughed good-naturedly. ‘Am I? Well, all the same, I’d rather honour women than despise them.’ The stout critic looked up from his notebook approvingly. ‘Keep that up as long as you can, youngster,’ he said. ‘It won’t hurt you!’ A silence followed; the man with the _Referee_ spoke not another word, and the fresh-coloured provincial, getting tired of the smoke and the general air of egotistical self-concentration with which each member of the club sat fast in his own chosen chair, absorbed in his own chosen form of inward meditation, took a hasty departure, glad to get out into the cool night air. His way home lay through a part of Mayfair, and at one of the houses he passed he saw a long line of carriages outside and a brilliant display of light within. Some fashionable leader of society was holding a Sunday evening reception; and moved by a certain vague interest and curiosity, the young reporter lingered for a moment watching the gaily-dressed women passing in and out. While he yet waited, a dignified butler appeared on the steps and murmured something in the ear of a gold-buttoned commissionaire, who thereupon shouted vociferously,— ‘Lady Car-ly-on’s carriage! This way!’ And as an elegant _coupé_, drawn by two spirited horses drove swiftly up in response to the summons, a woman wrapped in a soft, white mantilla of old Spanish lace, and holding up her silken train with one hand, came out of the house with a gentleman, evidently her host, who was escorting her to the carriage. The young man from the country leaned eagerly forward and caught sight of a proud, delicate face illumined by two dark violet eyes, a flashing glimpse of beauty that vanished ere fully seen. But it was enough to make him who had been called a ‘callow bird’ wax suddenly indignant with certain self-styled celebrities he had just left behind at the ‘Bohemian.’