Rosamund came in breezily, sables powdered with tiny flecks of snow, cheeks like damask roses, eyes of turquoise. "How d'ye do!" she nodded, greeting Boots askance as she closed with Nina. "I came, you see, but _do_ you want to be jammed and mauled and trodden on at the Craigs'? No? That's perfect!--neither do I. Where is the adorable Eileen? Nobody sees her any more." "She was at the Delmour-Carnes's yesterday." "Was she? Curious I didn't see her. Tea? With gratitude, dear, if it's Scotch." She sat erect, the furs sliding to the back of the chair, revealing the rather accented details of her perfectly turned figure; and rolling up her gloves she laid her pretty head on one side and considered Boots with very bright and malicious eyes. "They say," she said, smiling, "that some very heavy play goes on in that cunning little new house of yours, Mr. Lansing." "Really?" he asked blandly. "Yes; and I'm wondering if it is true." "I shouldn't think you'd care, Mrs. Fane, as long as it makes a good story." Rosamund flushed. Then, always alive to humour, laughed frankly. "What a nasty thing to say to a woman!" she observed; "it fairly reeks impertinence. Mr. Lansing, you don't like me very well, do you?" "I dare not," he said, "because you are married. If you were only free _a vinculo matrimonii_--" Rosamund laughed again, and sat stroking her muff and smiling. "Curious, isn't it?" she said to Nina--"the inborn antipathy of two agreeable human bipeds for one another. _Similis simili gaudet_--as my learned friend will admit. But with us it's the old, old case of that eminent practitioner, the late Dr. Fell. _Esto perpetua!_ Oh, well! We can't help it, can we, Mr. Lansing?" And again to Nina: "Dear, _have_ you heard anything about Alixe Ruthven? I think it is the strangest thing that nobody seems to know where she is. And all anybody can get out of Jack is that she's in a nerve factory--or some such retreat--and a perfect wreck. She might as well be dead, you know." "In that case," observed Lansing, "it might be best to shift the centre of gossip. _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_--which is simple enough for anybody to comprehend." "That is rude, Mr. Lansing," flashed out Rosamund; and to his astonishment he saw the tears start to her eyes. "I beg your pardon," he said sulkily. "You do well to. I care more for Alixe Ruthven than--than you give me credit for caring about anybody. People are never wholly worthless, Mr. Lansing--only the very young think that. Give me credit for one wholly genuine affection, and you will not be too credulous; and perhaps in future you and I may better be able to endure one another when Fate lands us at the same tea-table." Boots said respectfully: "I am sorry for what I said, Mrs. Pane. I hope that your friend Mrs. Ruthven will soon recover."