"Do you want me to let you know if I come across him?" "Oh, I don't know. I leave it to you. Do just as you think. When are you going?" "On the thirtieth." "What about his money?" "Oh, he needn't worry about that." "George"--she looked at me accusingly--"I believe you've bought those things of his yourself." "Bought's hardly the word," I laughed. "Anyway, why shouldn't I?" "And you're going to finance him." "Well, the man's got to eat. And Carpentier _might_ knock him out." She looked away down the crowded tea-room and made no reply. She herself had chosen the Piccadilly, and I looked at her again as she sat there, tucked away in a far corner of the room, with merry parties at the neighbouring tables and De Groot playing the "_Relicario_." She was differently and quite brilliantly dressed. As far as externals could assist her, she appeared to have resolved to go back step by step and hand in hand with Derwent Rose. Her furs were thrown back, showing the V-shaped opening of her brown _charmeuse_, perfectly plain except for a tiny bronze beading at the edge and a lump of amber on a fine gold chain. Her arms were dropped over the sides of her chair, making from throat and dropped shoulders to the tips of her fingers one mantle-like flowing line. Her dark hair was arranged after a different fashion, and on it was a little brown brocade toque with owl's ears sticking out. About her younger women chattered and laughed, but among them she seemed to be--I hardly know how to express it--above rather than out of the picture, architecture to their building, a contralto melody underrunning their treble and fragmentary tunes, a white marble against which their fountains glittered and rainbowed and splashed. No shawls, worsted stockings and hot milk here! If Derry must be young, she too would be as young as clothes could make her. And I could not deny her success.