The hygienic regulations by which every Board-School child is entitled to a fixed number of cubic feet of space do not apply to the guests of marchionesses, and it was becoming difficult to move through the concert-room without inflicting physical injury on others. The wiser of the late arrivals, or those more familiar with the locality, backed out as soon as they had mumbled the necessary formula of greeting to their hostess, and took refuge in a smaller drawing-room, where the Lady Victoria was holding a levee of her own particular friends. It was to this room that Hammond made his way after bowing over the marchioness’s hand. Directly he lifted the curtain which screened the open doorway, Lady Victoria, clad in white, with a string of turquoise forget-me-nots round her bared neck, deserted a group of half a dozen other admirers, and came towards him with a frankness which would have jarred harshly on her mother’s notions of finesse. “That is right, Mr. Hammond. I am so glad you have come into this room. It is cool, it is comfortable, and, what is better, you can’t hear a note of the music.” “You have forgotten to mention that you are in this room,” replied Hammond. “But I share your views about the music. If we have got to pretend to enjoy art, why can’t it be painting or poetry, or something that won’t positively annoy us?” “It wouldn’t do for my mother to hear me,” said Victoria, “but I may as well confess to you that I have absolutely no accomplishments. I don’t play the violin, I don’t model in clay, and I don’t even write answers to questions on etiquette in the _Young Ladies’ Journal_.” “Surely you kodak?” Hammond pleaded. Before Lady Victoria could clear herself from the charge, the voice of the machine sounded through the curtain: “_The Dean of Colchester!_” Hammond turned pale. “Whatever is the dean doing here?” he gasped. Victoria shrugged her shoulders. “My mother likes to have the higher clergy at her parties. She thinks their costume gives variety.” “Whenever I meet that man he asks me for a subscription,” Hammond was beginning, when the dean himself, forewarned by some preternatural intuition, turned aside from the reception-room and came through the curtain. A glad light beamed out on his face as he bore down upon the pair. “And how is Lady Victoria? I need not ask. Mr. Hammond, this is fortunate!” Hammond gave a smile, like that of Mr. Charles Hawtrey on the stage when his stage mother-in-law enters and announces that she has come to spend a stage-day with him. “How much this time, dean?” The Dean of Colchester drew back; then he put his head on one side and smiled indulgently on his victim. “He is too bad, isn’t he?” This was to Lady Victoria. “But, do you know, I really was going to write to you this week.” “How much?” Hammond repeated, drearily. “Lady Victoria, I appeal to you. I am sure you must think me quite mercenary.” “Hadn’t you better tell him?” suggested the matter-of-fact Victoria.