‘I am certain she is not, poor darling!’ assented Gundred. ‘We must try to pull her into shape and teach her better,’ she added, with meditative earnestness, as if coming between husband and wife were the especial object of a woman’s life and training. ‘And yet, I believe there are men who admire that sort of girl, Kingston. I never can understand a man liking a woman who cannot put on a hat properly, but everybody says they do. I remember Mary Capplethwaite; she was neater than a new pin, with her hair most beautifully done, and the sweetest little face. But that did not prevent her husband from running away with Mildred Gunston, who always looked as if she had been left out all night in the wind and the rain. Of course, dear Mary may have got a little monotonous, but, still, I do think it is a great thing to be tidy and nice--yes?’ ‘That is all a man asks of a woman,’ answered Kingston. ‘And one might ask it for ever of your cousin Isabel, and never get it, I imagine. One knows that type of woman so well. The idea is that inferior clothes show a superior soul. The poor things believe that they reveal the beauty, and the freedom, and the preciousness of their individuality by neglecting everything that makes the ordinary woman desirable. They think they are above using the means that no really clever woman ever disdains. They are the half-baked, the half-clever, the weak, feeble copies of the strong-minded, strong-souled creatures they imitate and think they are. One meets them at Oxford; the place swarms with them. They sham genius by means of untidiness. Half of them are tailor-made and half of them are æsthetic--in blue plush sleeves and moulting terra-cotta-coloured plumes, or in short skirts and boat-shaped hats with a cock’s feather on one side. How well I know it; and that is your Cousin Isabel.’ ‘You really mustn’t dislike the poor darling so dreadfully, dear. We must make her happy with us. But I am so glad that you agree with me about that kind of woman. I never can see why one’s hair should not be properly done, however clever one is--yes? _I_ have never wanted to be dishevelled or slovenly. We must gradually get poor Isabel into the way of thinking about her appearance a little more. After all, she ought to look at least well-bred, dear, and even now she has one or two good features.’