When Lady Holme was alone she realised that she had, half unconsciously, meant that Miss Schley should find that there was at any rate one house in London whose door did not at once fly open to welcome her demure presence. But now? She certainly did not intend to be a marked exception to a rule that was apparently very general. If people were going to talk about her exclusion of Miss Schley, she would certainly not exclude her. She asked herself why she wished to, and said to herself that Miss Schley’s slyness bored her. But she knew that the real reason of the secret hostility she felt towards the American was the fact of their resemblance to each other. Until Miss Schley appeared in London she--Viola Holme--had been original both in her beauty and in her manner of presenting it to the world. Miss Schley was turning her into a type. It was too bad. Any woman would have disliked it. She wondered whether Miss Schley recognised the likeness. But of course people had spoken to her about it. Mrs. Wolfstein was her bosom friend. The Jewess had met her first at Carlsbad and, with that terrible social flair which often dwells in Israel, had at once realised her fitness for a London success and resolved to “get her over.” Women of the Wolfstein species are seldom jealously timorous of the triumphs of other women. A certain coarse cleverness, a certain ingrained assurance and unconquerable self-confidence keeps them hardy. And they generally have a noble reliance on the power of the tongue. Being incapable of any fear of Miss Schley, Mrs. Wolfstein, ever on the look-out for means of improving her already satisfactory position in the London world, saw one in the vestal virgin and resolved to launch her in England. She was delighted with the result. Miss Schley had already added several very desirable people to the Wolfstein visiting-list. In return “Henry” had “put her on to” one or two very good things in the City. Everything would be most satisfactory if only Lady Holme were not tiresome about the Cadogan Square door. “She hates you, Pimpernel,” said Mrs. Wolfstein to her friend. “Why?” drawled Miss Schley. “You know why perfectly well. You reproduce her looks. I’m perfectly certain she’s dreading your first night. She’s afraid people will begin to think that extraordinary colourless charm she and you possess stagey. Besides, you have certain mannerisms--you don’t imitate her, Pimpernel?” The pawnbroking expression was remarkably apparent for a moment in Mrs. Wolfstein’s eyes. “I haven’t started to yet.” “Yet?” “Well, if she don’t ask me to number thirty-eight--‘tis thirty-eight?” “Forty-two.” “Forty-two Cadogan Square, I might be tempted. I came out as a mimic, you know, at Corsher and Byall’s in Philadelphia.” Miss Schley gazed reflectively upon the brown carpet of Mrs. Wolfstein’s boudoir. “Folks said I wasn’t bad,” she added meditatively. “I think I ought to warn Viola,” said Mrs. Wolfstein.