* * * * * That evening Mrs. Greaves turned over the pages of a fashion paper in a corner of the club. It was previous to the days when "going to the club" had ceased to be a popular proceeding; it was not yet considered more civilised to go home with a few particular friends for the interval before dinner. The ladies' room was filled with groups of people refreshing themselves with tea after healthy exercise afoot or on horseback, or on the river, and the lofty building resounded with voices and laughter. The hot weather was within measurable distance, but the days were still pleasant, and the general exodus to the hills had not begun. The tennis courts in the public gardens were crowded every evening, the bandstand well surrounded, the Mall lively with riders and drivers; and the last ball of the season had yet to take place. Mrs. Greaves had played four sets of tennis, and now she was waiting for her husband to join her from the polo ground. Two women seated themselves at a tea-table just in front of her, and though she was absorbed in making up her mind whether to send home for one of the seductive blouses sketched on the advertisement page of the paper, she heard, unavoidably, scraps of their talk. First they discussed the ball that the bachelors of the station were giving next night in return for hospitality extended to them throughout the cold weather by the married members of the community. It was, they believed, to be an exceptionally brilliant affair; the supper was to include pomfrets from Bombay, and confections from Peliti's--the Buszard of India. From this they went on to the subject of their gowns for the ball. Then one of them said: "Look! There's Mrs. Coventry, and, needless to say, Mr. Kennard." The other looked up sharply; so did Mrs. Greaves, and this was the conversation that reached her unwilling ears. "Did you ever see such a change in anyone? You weren't here when she came out as a bride? No, of course, I remember, you were at home. I assure you she looked like a Salvation Army lass, or a charity school girl, her hair dragged back in a knob like a door-handle, and _hideous_ clothes. She would hardly speak to a man, and was horrified at everything and everybody. And now behold her, with a fringe, and dressed as well as anyone in the place, and, of all men, the irresistible Mr. Kennard in attendance. The boys' brigade appears to have been disbanded in his favour. He likes the field to himself." "What will be the end of it, do you think?"