Lettie wore a black lace dress in mourning for one of Leslie’s maternal aunts. This made her look older, otherwise there seemed to be no change in her. A subtle observer might have noticed a little hardness about her mouth, and disillusion hanging slightly on her eyes. She was, however, excited by the company in which she found herself, therefore she overflowed with clever speeches and rapid, brilliant observations. Certainly on such occasions she was admirable. The rest of the company formed, as it were, the orchestra which accompanied her. George was exceedingly quiet. He spoke a few words now and then to Mrs Raphael, but on the whole he was altogether silent, listening. “Really!” Lettie was saying, “I don’t see that one thing is worth doing any more than another. It’s like dessert: you are equally indifferent whether you have grapes, or pears, or pineapple.” “Have you already dined so far?” sang the Scottish poetess in her musical, plaintive manner. “The only thing worth doing is producing,” said Lettie. “Alas, that is what all the young folk are saying nowadays!” sighed the Irish musician. “That is the only thing one finds any pleasure in—that is to say, any satisfaction,” continued Lettie, smiling, and turning to the two artists. “Do you not think so?” she added. “You do come to a point at last,” said the Scottish poetess, “when your work is a real source of satisfaction.” “Do you write poetry then?” asked George of Lettie. “I! Oh, dear no! I have tried strenuously to make up a Limerick for a competition, but in vain. So you see, I am a failure there. Did you know I have a son, though?—a marvellous little fellow, is he not, Leslie?—he is my work. I am a wonderful mother, am I not, Leslie?” “Too devoted,” he replied. “There!” she exclaimed in triumph—“When I have to sign my name and occupation in a visitor’s book, it will be ‘——Mother’. I hope my business will flourish,” she concluded, smiling.