"No," said Eric, drily, "she certainly has not." "And," pursued Celia, "she is married. She shouldn't have married if she wanted to _be_ something." "But perhaps she didn't, or, at least, not what you call `something.' She thinks herself very much `something' or `somebody,' and her marriage has certainly not stood in her light." Celia hesitated. "You don't like Lady Campion?" she said, abruptly. "Oh yes, I do," he replied, lightly. "She's by no means a bad sort of woman," he went on, hastily. Celia was not the kind of girl to whom it seemed natural to talk slang. "But she wouldn't have been half what she is if she hadn't married. The best of her, in my humble opinion, comes out as a wife. I like to see her with her husband. She recognises his superiority." "Oh dear," thought Celia, "what a man's way of putting it!" "For he really is a first-rate fellow in his own line. And she is not a genius, though she is--oh yes! she is--clever, though sometimes she makes herself just a little ridiculous." Celia did not speak. This was again a new light to her. She felt confused. She had pictured Lady Campion quite differently, somehow, and she felt sure Winifred had done the same, pitying her for having married and thus rashly clipped her wings. "She--Lady Campion--admires Miss Norreys exceedingly," said Celia, after a little silence. "That should be a bond between you, for I can see you admire her exceedingly too." Eric looked somewhat surprised. The young girl had more perception than he had given her credit for. "Yes," he said, "I do. I admire her very much indeed. As an artist, I place her more highly than might be generally thought reasonable, and, as a woman, yes, I admire her too, and respect her, except for--" "What?" asked Celia, eagerly. "I cannot tell you," he answered. "I was going to say that, as a woman, there is one direction in which I cannot admire her. But I cannot explain more fully, and perhaps I may have misjudged her. She is one in whom it would be difficult to believe there existed any of the weaknesses that one finds in smaller characters." This was high praise. Celia's interest in Hertha grew with every word. "I wish I knew her," she said, earnestly. "I should so like to meet her." Her words reached the ears of her companion on the other side. Mr Fancourt was beginning to feel as if he had had about enough of the neighbour--a talkative woman of forty or thereabouts, well up in the topics of the day, and of his own small section of the world in particular--on his left, whom hitherto he had deliberately chosen in preference to the pretty young creature on his right. And now, with the calm _insouciance_ of an experienced diner-out, he turned to Celia. "There must be more in her than I suspected," he said to himself. "She seems to have succeeded in making Balderson talk, and he can be pretty heavy in hand when it doesn't suit him to be lively."