“Such charming weather,” the lady repeated in the tone of one who doesn’t wish so pleasant a little secret to be too generally discussed. “Never known a better summer,” agreed Mr. Brumley. And then all these minor eddies were submerged in Lady Beach-Mandarin’s advance towards her next step, an invitation to lunch. “There,” said she, “I’m not Victorian. I always separate husbands and wives—by at least a week. You must come alone.” It was clear to Mr. Brumley that Lady Harman wanted to come alone—and was going to accept, and equally clear that she and her mother and sister regarded this as a very daring thing to do. And when that was settled Lady Beach-Mandarin went on to the altogether easier topic of her Social Friends, a society of smart and influential women; who devoted a certain fragment of time every week to befriending respectable girls employed in London, in a briskly amiable manner, having them to special teas, having them to special evenings with special light refreshments, knowing their names as far as possible and asking about their relations, and generally making them feel that Society was being very frank and amiable to them and had an eye on them and meant them well, and was better for them than socialism and radicalism and revolutionary ideas. To this also Lady Harman it seemed was to come. It had an effect to Mr. Brumley’s imagination as if the painted scene of that lady’s life was suddenly bursting out into open doors—everywhere. “Many of them are _quite_ lady-like,” echoed Mrs. Sawbridge suddenly, picking up the whole thing instantly and speaking over her tea cup in that quasi-confidential tone of hers to Mr. Brumley. “Of course they are mostly quite dreadfully Sweated,” said Lady Beach-Mandarin. “Especially in the confectionery——” She thought of her position in time. “In the inferior class of confectioners’ establishments,” she said and then hurried on to: “Of course when you come to lunch,—Agatha Alimony. I’m most anxious for you and her to meet.” “Is that _the_ Agatha Alimony?” asked Miss Sawbridge abruptly. “The one and only,” said Lady Beach-Mandarin, flashing a smile at her. “And what a marvel she is! I do so want you to know her, Lady Harman. She’d be a Revelation to you....” Everything had gone wonderfully so far. “And now,” said Lady Beach-Mandarin, thrusting forward a face of almost exaggerated motherliness and with an unwonted tenderness suffusing her voice, “show me the Chicks.” There was a brief interrogative pause. “Your Chicks,” expanded Lady Beach-Mandarin, on the verge of crooning. “Your _little_ Chicks.” “_Oh!_” cried Lady Harman understanding. “The children.” “Lucky woman!” cried Lady Beach-Mandarin. “Yes.” “One hasn’t begun to be friends,” she added, “until one has seen—them....” “So _true_,” Mrs. Sawbridge confided to Mr. Brumley with a look that almost languished.... “Certainly,” said Mr. Brumley, “rather.”