“Fifty-eight!” Lady Holme said to herself as she went into the house. “Just think of being fifty-eight if one has been a man’s woman! Perhaps it’s better after all to be an everybody’s woman. Well, but how’s it done?” She looked quite puzzled as she came into the drawing-room, where Robin Pierce had been waiting impatiently for twenty minutes. “Robin,” she said seriously, “I’m very unhappy.” “Not so unhappy as I have been for the last half hour,” he said, taking her hand and holding it. “What is it?” “I’m dreadfully afraid I’m a man’s woman. Do you think I am?” He could not help smiling as he looked into her solemn eyes. “I do indeed. Why should you be upset about it?” “I don’t know. Lady Cardington’s been saying things--and I met a rather abominable little person at lunch, a little person like a baby that’s been about a great deal in a former state, and altogether--Let’s have tea.” “By all means.” “And now soothe me, Robin. I’m dreadfully strung up. Soothe me. Tell me, I’m an everybody’s woman and that I shall never be _de trop_ in the world--not even when I’m fifty-eight.” CHAPTER VI THE success of Pimpernel Schley in London was great and immediate, and preceded her appearance upon the stage. To some people, who thought they knew their London, it was inexplicable. Miss Schley was pretty and knew how to dress. These facts, though of course denied by some, as all facts in London are, were undeniable. But Miss Schley had nothing to say. She was not a brilliant talker, as so many of her countrywomen are. She was not vivacious in manner, except on rare occasions. She was not interested in all the questions of the day. She was not--a great many things. But she was one thing. She was exquisitely sly. Her slyness was definite and pervasive. In her it took the place of wit. It took the place of culture. It even took the place of vivacity. It was a sort of maid-of-all-work in her personality and never seemed to tire. The odd thing was that it did not seem to tire others. They found it permanently piquant. Men said of Miss Schley, “She’s a devilish clever little thing. She don’t say much, but she’s up to every move on the board.” Women were impressed by her. There was something in her supreme and snowy composure that suggested inflexible will. Nothing ever put her out or made her look as if she were in a false position. London was captivated by the abnormal combination of snow and slyness which she presented to it, and began at once to make much of her.