"Oh, I suppose so," smirked the lady amiably. "You have read my novel, of course. It is now in its fourth edition, and has been refused by Smith and Mudie. I follow the French school of speaking my mind." "And a very nasty mind it must be," thought Larcher, who had been informed about the book by Tait. He did not, however, give this thought utterance, but endeavored to generalize the conversation. "You have many celebrities here to-night, I presume?" "My Dear Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Durham, in capitals, "every individual in this company is famous! Yonder is Mr. Padsop, the great traveler, who wrote 'Mosques and Mosquitoes.' He is talking to Miss Pexworth, the writer of those scathing articles in _The Penny Trumpet_, entitled 'Man, the Brute.' She is a modern woman." "Oh, indeed!" said Claude equably, and looked at this latest production of the nineteenth century, "she is rather masculine in appearance." "It is her pride to be so, Mr. Larcher. She is more masculine than man. That is her brother, who designs ladies' dresses and decorates dinner tables." "Ah! He isn't masculine. I suppose nature wanted to preserve the balance in the family. The law of compensation, eh?" "Oh, you are severe. Tommy Pexworth is a dear little creature, and so fond of chiffons. He knows more about women's dress than his sister." "So I should think," replied Claude dryly. He took an instant and violent dislike to Mr. Pexworth, who was one of those feminine little creatures, only distinguished from the other sex by wearing trousers. "A charming pair," he added, smiling. "I don't know which I admire the most. The sister who is such a thorough gentlemen, or the brother who is a perfect lady." "You are satirical," smiled Mrs. Durham, enjoying this hit at her friends. "Now you must take me down to have some refreshment. Really, you must." Thus inspired, Claude elbowed the hostess through the crush, and escorted her to a bare counter in the dining room, whereon were displayed thin bread and butter, very weak tea, and fossil buns. Mrs. Durham evidently knew her own refreshments too well to partake of them, for she had a mild brandy and soda, produced from its hiding place by a confidential waiter. She asked Claude to join her, but he refused on the plea that he never drank between meals. "But you are not a brain-worker," said Mrs. Durham, hurriedly finishing her brandy and soda, lest her guests should see it and become discontented with the weak tea; "if I did not keep myself up I should die. Ah! Why, here is Mr. Hilliston." "Hilliston!" said Claude, astonished at seeing his guardian in this house.