"Oh, after that--the deluge," laughs Lady Jean, shaking out the countless lace ruffles and frills of her cambric morning gown. "I could not take life _au grand sérieux_; it would kill me. Oh, I know what you would say. Excitement is frivolous, useless, wearing to our nerves, destruction to health and beauty. Perhaps so. But you are blessed with a serene temperament; I am not. I like to live, to enjoy, to be in one whirl from morning till night. I don't care about long life, peace, tranquillity. No, I want all I can, _while_ I can." Lauraine looks at her curiously. She knows very little of Lady Jean--only just so much as one woman in society does know of another who moves in the same set, dances at the same balls, pursues the same routine of enjoyments. But she knows she is popular and admired, on good terms with the world at large, and an immense favourite with men. "You don't agree with me, of course?" pursues Lady Jean, sipping her claret, and looking amusedly at Lauraine's grave face. "I suppose you have aims and ambitions and 'views' like your friend Lady Etwynde? What a curious thing, by the way, that she should be a friend of yours, or indeed, of anybody's except a peacock. She must be dreadfully uninteresting!" "I think her charming," answers Lauraine. "She is one of the few true women it has been my lot to meet." Lady Jean feels a little uncomfortable. She has long passed the stage of blushing, or she would feel the colour mounting as she meets Lauraine's calm, frank gaze. "Is there any _arrière pensée_?" she thinks. "Is she less blind than we imagine?" "I can't imagine a woman getting enthusiastic _about_ a woman," she says coolly. "Seems unnatural. Of course, I have no doubt the æsthetic is very charming to those who can appreciate her. I never could." "I suppose not. I should scarcely think you had much in common," answers Lauraine dryly. "Still," says Lady Jean, rising carelessly from the table, "it was a little odd and unnatural that you should go away with her, and leave your poor husband all to himself. If he hadn't been one of the most good-natured men----" "Pardon me," interrupts Lauraine, very coldly, "I would rather not discuss my husband with anybody. You may rest assured I had his full sanction for my 'unnatural' conduct. And, if you know anything of a mother's feelings at all, you might suppose that I scarcely felt inclined for the gaieties and frivolities of London life after so sad a trial." "Ah, yes; I forgot--the poor little angel," murmurs Lady Jean, her eyelids drooping to hide the angry flash in her black eyes. "But--I may be wrong--I don't know, only to me it always seemed that a wife's first duty was to her husband." "Pray, has my husband been complaining of me?" inquires Lauraine haughtily. Lady Jean smiles involuntarily. "My dear, no, of course not. I only said--