"We have just come from Lady Etwynde's reception," she says, laughing immoderately. "I reckon you people are having some fun out of your new craze. Guess _she's_ gone pretty nigh out of her mind, at all events." "What was it like? Do tell us," chime in one or two voices--voices of outsiders to whom the Lady--or, as she loved to call herself, the "Ladye"--Etwynde Fitz-Herbert is a sort of unknown wonder. Her sayings and doings are chronicled by society journals; but her circle of intimates and associates is very limited. They begin to wonder how Mrs. Bradshaw B. Woollffe gained admittance. That lady now informs them. "Well," she commences, looking round at the attentive faces, "I was calling at Lauraine's--beg pardon, I suppose I should say Lady Vavasour's--and she took me with her and Keith. Keith is a great chum of the 'Ladye' Etwynde's. We got to her house--a real lovely place with a big garden, out Kensington way; all red brick, no windows to speak of, but lots of _frames_, and a hall--my! the queerest place--all done with matting, and so dark, and everywhere double doors and plush curtains, 'of a sad sage-green,' to use Keith's expression. Such a silent place, not a sound anywhere. Well, we went into a room, also very dim and a great deal of green and yellow about it, and huge pots of sunflowers in the windows, and the very queerest chairs, and on every chair sat a woman, and behind every chair stood a man. They were all quite still, and had their eyes fixed on the sunflowers and their bodies twisted into the queerest attitudes. I stared some, I can tell you. Lauraine went up to a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a clinging gown of terra-cotta stuff--such a gown! My! Worth never had anything to do with _that_ frock, I guess. She came forward and spoke to me. 'You are not one of us, but you are welcome,' she said. Her voice was very sad and very sweet. "'This is one of our contemplative afternoons,' she said, when I had bowed--speak, I really couldn't. 'We do but sit still, and _yearn_.'" "What?" ejaculated the listeners. "Guess you're through," laughs Mrs. Woollffe. "Well, so was I." "'Yes,' she went on. 'We yearn for all that is most soul-uplifting. We each set a distinct object before our mind's eye, and absorb ourselves in its contemplation. These moments are truly precious for those who can be brought to appreciate their intensity. We are most of us earnest students of our faith--disciples of culture--worshippers of the beautiful--the far-reaching--the subtle--the sublime!' "'And don't you ever speak?' I asked her; for of all the vacant-eyed, sleepy idiots in creation I never came across such a set as were 'yearning' there. "'Speak--oh yes--in season and at proper times,' she says. 'But thought is often more beautiful than words, and language is deficient in much that might clothe and dignify our ideas.'