She had worked out her life on strictly practical lines—the margin for enjoyment being limited by her tangible assets. It was purely motives of economy that only allowed the indulgence of a single “Saturday” in the week. With a little more capital a “Saturday” might also occur on Tuesday. Her “mink” might cease to be a substitute and become mink. Scented soaps, patchouli, and many other nose-offending delicacies might spring into being about her. A cellar, even, might be started, and a silver mirror added to her gradually-dwindling toilet appointments. Clearly, it was not advisable to cast Eliphalet forth without first plumbing his resources. That grown-up daughter was rather a stumbling-block. Daughters are unsympathetic creatures, and it might very well be that she would stand in the way of her father’s generous impulses. The main thing to do was to find out exactly what their position was, and meanwhile to lie low. For three days Mrs. Montmorency digested her plans and took great pains to avoid meeting her guests. This necessity resulted in some very near shaves; in one case driving her to take refuge in the cistern-cupboard. Emma was valueless, since she declined to interrogate either Eliphalet or Mornice on the matter of their private affairs, and it was only by accident that Mrs. Montmorency learnt that Mr. Ronald Knight, who visited the house nearly every day, was the gentleman who had recommended them to her tender graces. This was a happy windfall, for it provided an excuse for offering him her thanks and at the same time drawing from him a little private conversation. The following afternoon, which was too wet and dark to be of use to the film folk, Mr. Knight returned with Mornice and entered the house. No sooner did Mrs. Montmorency hear his voice in the sitting-room than she opened the front door and passed out. There was a broad-minded pastry-cook’s at the corner of the street, where cherry-brandy and sweet wines were dispensed to nervous ladies, and, using this as an observation-post, Mrs. Montmorency sat down to a pleasant hour of waiting. “Mr. Cardomay out?” said Ronald, warming his hands before the fire. “Yup. They’re doing the second act—he won’t be in till five.” Ronald bore the tidings with fortitude. “You’re going to be awfully good in that film, Morny,” he said. “Think so?” “Sure so! If it gets released and well booked they’ll be after you like flies—all the big firms.” “Bon!” said Mornice, who could throw a spice of French into her conversation. “Morny!” “That’s me!” “I suppose dozens of men have adored you?” “Oh, yes. We’ll take a tram to-morrow, if you please, and look at their little graves.” “Have you ever loved any of them?” “All of them.” “Any _one_ more than the rest?” “Yes; but not so’s you’d notice.” “It wouldn’t be very original of me, then, to say I loved you?” “It would be if you didn’t.” He scarcely knew how to take that, but he tried: “D’you want me to be original?”