Lady Adela poured her out a cup of tea, and Kingston Darnley offered it to her with due devotion. ‘No, dear, no sugar,’ said Gundred gently, repulsing his offer. ‘You forget, I never take sugar.’ His ardour was such that he persisted in plying her with all good things; hers was such that she expected him to remember minutely all her preferences and dislikes. Accordingly, her clear, sweet voice conveyed a hint of reproach. ‘And have you enjoyed the play, dear?’ asked Lady Adela. ‘Very wonderful,’ replied Gundred. ‘But so painful, Lady Adela. I cannot see why they should want to perform such painful things. There is so much beauty in life--yes? So why should we look at the ugly things?’ ‘It’s all in the day’s work,’ suggested Kingston Darnley. ‘Beauty as well as ugliness. One has to face both in life.’ ‘But beauty can never be ugly,’ answered Gundred, ‘and art only deals with beauty----’ Her calm tones carried the conviction of perfect certitude, and flattened out the conversation like a steam-roller. She was too pretty, however, for such syllogisms to be as daunting as they might have been from the lips of a plainer woman. Kingston contemplated the speaker with a pleasure that obliterated all close consideration of the thing spoken. ‘I like a play with plenty of passion in it,’ announced Mrs. Mimburn. ‘English plays are so absurdly mealy-mouthed. These things exist, and, really, the whole of life is wonderfully interesting. And yet English writers leave out the most exciting half of everything. Why, for my own part, as soon as I have read the _haut goût_ parts in a book, I take no further interest in the story.’ ‘It is all a matter of taste, I suppose--yes?’ answered Gundred, her cold tone implying that it was a matter of good taste and bad, and that on the point her own was as good as Mrs. Mimburn’s was bad. ‘Some women like to pretend that they are not flesh and blood,’ began Mrs. Mimburn. Clearly, sweetly, decisively, Gundred interposed. ‘Dear Lady Adela,’ she said, ‘really, you make the very best tea that anyone could imagine. And it is such a rare art nowadays. But, do you know, I must not stay another minute. Poor papa will be getting quite anxious. Kingston dear, you may get me a hansom if you like, but I cannot let you come with me. Your mother will almost forget she ever had a son. You must stay with her and tell her about that dreadful play.’ ‘Look here, do let me come with you,’ pleaded Kingston. ‘I hardly feel to have seen you at all to-day. I want to talk to you.’ ‘Dear boy,’ smiled Gundred, ‘you have just had three and a half hours of my company.’