The house was superbly decorated with large china vases in which magnolias, azaleas, and rhododendrons had been placed. The reception-rooms were filling rapidly; it was soon going to be a crush. Every description of plastic was there—the small, tall, large, thin; and one uniform shade prevailed, that of the flesh colour. As the rays of the burning sun entered obliquely, tracing long lines of golden light on the parqueted floor, it illuminated equally the phalanxes of refined feet and ankles, flat insteps and knobby toes. “My lord, do you see there Mrs Archibald?” “What, the vaporous Mrs Archibald? But where is the grace of the woman we used to call the sylph of Belgravia?” “She lost her chiffon covering in the London storm, my lord.” “Some fat old dowager malignantly said of her that she was draped in her breeding, so thin and undulating did she appear. But, has the breeding disappeared also in the torrential rain? for she looks as strong as a horse—see these thick ankles, short wrists, and red arms. I always objected to that sylph in cream gauze, for one never could get at her, she lived _de profil_ and one only could peep at her through side doors.” “Who was her husband?” inquired the little artist. “He was colonel of a crack regiment. His ideas were limited to two dogmas: the sense of military exclusiveness, and a profound horror of intellectual women. Like his wife he was well-bred.” “Yes, my lord, but the Englishman has definite limits to his gentility; the brute, though dormant, lies ready to leap and bite when he is annoyed.” “What are you, Danford, if not an Englishman?” Lionel smiled. “Ah! satirists have neither sex nor nationality; but pray go on with your alembic of Colonel Archibald’s character.” “Well, he chose his wife because she was a well-bred girl—or at least had her certificate of good breeding—also because she was well connected and thoroughly trained in all social cunning.” “Yes, and I daresay the thin, well-trained piece of machinery had been stirred by the dashing young officer. She secretly harboured love in that secret corner of the heart and senses which thorough-bred folks ignore outwardly but slyly analyse. We must not forget, my lord, that she has short wrists and thick ankles—ha! ha!—he was of her set, so nature could be let loose, while creeping passion was allowed to fill her whole being.” “True, my dear Mephisto, but generations of women before her have done the same, and she did not disgrace the long lineage of mediocrity and avidity. She had been told what all women are told in our world—namely, that a lady never spoke loudly, never thought broadly; therefore she ruined her friends’ reputations under a whisper, and put the Spanish Inquisition to shame by her pietistical hypocrisy.” As Lionel ended this homily of the vapoury Mrs Archibald, a group of bystanders dispersed, and Lady Carey was visible to our two pilgrims.