Virginia Revel was just twenty-seven. She was tall and of an exquisite slimness—indeed, a poem might have been written to her slimness, it was so exquisitely proportioned. Her hair was of real bronze, with the greenish tint in its gold; she had a determined little chin, a lovely nose, slanting blue eyes that showed a gleam of deepest cornflower between the half-closed lids, and a delicious and quite indescribable mouth that tilted ever so slightly at one corner in what is known as “the signature of Venus.” It was a wonderfully expressive face, and there was a sort of radiant vitality about her that always challenged attention. It would have been quite impossible ever to ignore Virginia Revel. She drew Bill into the small drawing-room which was all pale and mauve and green and yellow, like crocuses surprised in a meadow. “Bill, darling,” said Virginia, “isn’t the Foreign Office missing you? I thought they couldn’t get on without you.” “I’ve brought a message for you from Codders.” Thus irreverently did Bill allude to his chief. “And by the way, Virginia, in case he asks, remember that your telephone was out of order this morning.” “But it hasn’t been.” “I know that. But I said it was.” “Why? Enlighten me as to this Foreign Office touch.” Bill threw her a reproachful glance. “So that I could get here and see you, of course.” “Oh, darling Bill, how dense of me! And how perfectly sweet of you!” “Chilvers said you were going out.” “So I was—to Sloane Street. There’s a place there where they’ve got a perfectly wonderful new hip band.” “A hip band?” “Yes, Bill, H.I.P. hip, B.A.N.D. band. A band to confine the hips. You wear it next the skin.” “I blush for you, Virginia. You shouldn’t describe your underwear to a young man to whom you are not related. It isn’t delicate.” “But, Bill dear, there’s nothing indelicate about hips. We’ve all got hips—although we poor women are trying awfully hard to pretend we haven’t. This hip band is made of red rubber and comes just to above the knee, and it’s simply impossible to walk in it.” “How awful!” said Bill. “Why do you do it?” “Oh, because it gives one such a noble feeling to suffer for one’s silhouette. But don’t let’s talk about my hip band. Give me George’s message.” “He wants to know whether you’ll be in at four o’clock this afternoon.” “I shan’t. I shall be at Ranelagh. Why this sort of formal call? Is he going to propose to me, do you think?” “I shouldn’t wonder.” “Because, if so, you can tell him that I much prefer men who propose on impulse.” “Like me?” “It’s not an impulse with you, Bill. It’s habit.” “Virginia, won’t you ever——” “No, no, no, Bill. I won’t have it in the morning before lunch. Do try and think of me as a nice motherly person approaching middle age who has your interests thoroughly at heart.” “Virginia, I do love you so.”