“Will she?” she said to Mrs. Wolfstein. “Yes. If she’d never been shipwrecked she’d have been almost entertaining, but--there’s Sir Donald Ulford trying to attract your attention.” “Where?” She looked and saw Sir Donald sitting opposite to the large young man with the contemptuous blue eyes and the chubby mouth. They both seemed very bored. Sir Donald bowed. “Who is that with him?” asked Lady Holme. “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wolfstein. “He looks like a Cupid who’s been through Sandow’s school. He oughtn’t to wear anything but wings.” “It’s Sir Donald’s son, Leo,” said Lady Cardington. Pimpernel Schley lifted her eyes for an instant from her plate, glanced at Leo Ulford, and cast them down again. “Leo Ulford’s a blackguard,” observed Mrs. Trent. “And when a fair man’s a blackguard he’s much more dangerous than a dark man.” All the women stared at Leo Ulford with a certain eagerness. “He’s good-looking,” said Sally Perceval. “But I always distrust cherubic people. They’re bound to do you if they get the chance. Isn’t he married?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Trent. “He married a deaf heiress.” “Intelligent of him!” remarked Mrs. Wolfstein. “I always wish I’d married a blind millionaire instead of Henry. Being a Jew, Henry sees not only all there is to see, but all there isn’t. Sir Donald and his Cupid son don’t seem to have much to say to one another.” “Oh, don’t you know that family affection’s the dumbest thing on earth?” said Mrs. Trent. “Too deep for speech,” said Lady Manby. “I love to see fathers and sons together, the fathers trying to look younger than they are and the sons older. It’s the most comic relationship, and breeds shyness as the West African climate breeds fever.” “I know the whole of the West African coast by heart,” declared Miss Burns, wagging her head, and moving her brown hands nervously among her knives and forks. “And I never caught anything there.” “Not even a husband,” murmured Mrs. Wolfstein to Lady Manby. “In fact, I never felt better in my life than I did at Old Calabar,” continued Miss Burns. “But there my mind was occupied. I was studying the habits of alligators.” “They’re very bad, aren’t they?” asked Lady Manby, in a tone of earnest inquiry. “I prefer to study the habits of men,” said Sally Perceval, who was always surrounded by a troup of young racing men and athletes, who admired her swimming feats. “Men are very disappointing, I think,” observed Mrs. Trent. “They are like a lot of beads all threaded on one string.” “And what’s the string?” asked Sally Perceval. “Vanity. Men are far vainer than we are. Their indifference to the little arts we practise shows it. A woman whose head is bald covers it with a wig. Without a wig she would feel that she was an outcast totally powerless to attract. But a bald-headed man has no idea of diffidence. He does not bother about a wig because he expects to be adored without one.”