Ashley Greaves was the painter. There was nothing of the Bohemian about him. He looked like a heavy cavalry officer as he stood in the centre of the room talking to a small, sharp-featured old lady in a poke bonnet. “He’s safe. Lady Blower’s got hold of him.” “Poor wretch! She ought to have a keeper. Strong tea, Robin.” They found a settee in a corner walled in by the backs of tea-drinking beauties. “I want to ask you something,” said Lady Holme, confidentially. “You go about and hear what they’re saying.” “And greater nonsense it seems each new season.” “Nonsense keeps us alive.” “Is it the oxygen self-administered by an almost moribund society?” “It’s the perfume that prevents us from noticing the stuffiness of the room. But, Robin, tell me--what is the nonsense of now?” “Religious, political, theatrical, divorce court or what, Lady Holme?” He looked at her with a touch of mischief in his dark face, which told her, and was meant to tell her, that he was on the alert, and had divined that she had a purpose in thus pleasantly taking possession of him. “Oh, the people--nonsense. You know perfectly what I mean.” “Whom are they chattering about most at the moment? You’ll be contemptuous if I tell you.” “It’s a woman, then?” “When isn’t it?” “Do I know her?” “Slightly.” “Well?” “Miss Schley.” “Really?” Lady Holme’s voice sounded perfectly indifferent and just faintly surprised. There was no hint of irritation in it. “And what are they saying about Miss Schley?” she added, sipping her tea and glancing about the crowded room. “Oh, many things, and among the many one that’s more untrue than all the rest put together.” “What’s that?” “It’s too absurd. I don’t think I’ll tell you.” “But why not? If it’s too absurd it’s sure to be amusing.” “I don’t think so.” His voice sounded almost angry. “Tell me, Robin.” He looked at her quickly with a warm light in his dark eyes. “If you only knew how I--” “Hush! Go on about Miss Schley.” “They’re saying that she’s wonderfully like you, and that--have some more tea?” “That--?” “That you hate it.” Lady Holme smiled, as if she were very much entertained. “But why should I hate it?” “I don’t know. But women invent reasons for everything.” “What have they invented for this?” “Oh--well--that you like to--I can’t tell you it all, really. But in substance it comes to this! They are saying, or implying--” “Implication is the most subtle of the social arts.” “It’s the meanest--implying that all that’s natural to you, that sets you apart from others, is an assumption to make you stand out from the rest of the crowd, and that you hate Miss Schley because she happens to have assumed some of the same characteristics, and so makes you seem less unique than you did before.” Lady Holme said nothing for a moment. Then she remarked: “I’m sure no woman said ‘less unique.’” “Why not?” “Now did anyone? Confess!” “What d’you suppose they did say?” “More commonplace.”