A cold, wet afternoon in March. But a few days ago people believed in spring. There was abundance of sunshine, of blue sky, of tender, venturesome birds; there had been piles of violets and primroses in the flower-girls' baskets, as they moved about the London streets; a breath of genuine spring-time in the soft air; but now all was cold and bleak and drear once more, and people went back shiveringly to fires and furs, and abused the treacherous English climate to their hearts' content. The external cold and dreariness were shut out effectually in a house in fashionable Mayfair. A sort of small drawing-room, opening off the grandeur and luxury of a larger one; a room with a hundred costly knick-knacks scattered about, with velvet draperies, and filled with hothouse flowers, and over which the fire-gleams played. A silver tea-urn stands hissing on a low table by the fire--dainty cups stand beside it. All is warm, fragrant, pleasant to the eye and the senses, and a silvery babble of women's voices adds life to the scene. "What has become of your young friend, Mr. Athelstone?" asks a pretty, fair woman, as she puts down her cup, and turns to the presiding goddess of the ceremonies--a big, imposing-looking woman, magnificently dressed. "He's in Rome still," she answers, with a strong American accent. "Means to stay there, too, I surmise--leastways, until the Vavasours come to town. Wonderful pretty woman Lady Vavasour--Lady Lauraine, as the poetry man calls her. You know that story?" "No," chime in two or three voices. "What was it?" "Well, he was an Italian," says the lady, who rejoices in the name of Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe, "and very poor, I believe, living in a garret, and that sort, but a right down poet, so every one says _now_, and Lady Vavasour found him out, and had his book published, and it took like wildfire and of course he's eternal grateful to her, and he wrote something on her--called her 'My Lady Lauraine'--sounds pretty, don't it--and the name was taken up, and in Rome no one called her anything else. She was quite the sensation of the day there; but she _is_ wonderful pretty, and no pumpkins about _that_." "She's been married--let me see----" "Two years, just upon. She's very delicate--that's why they went to Rome. Chest, or lungs, or something. An almighty pretty baby she's got too, and don't she seem fond of it! As a rule, mothers nowadays don't even bother their heads about their children--'ceptin' to dress 'em like dolls, and take 'em out as a show in their carriages." One or two fashionable mothers present wince a little at Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe's outspoken opinion, and feel more than ever convinced that she is dreadfully vulgar, and really it would be quite impossible to know her, only she is so amazingly rich. "And she and Mr. Athelstone are great friends, you say?" questions another voice.