“I don’t think I can help you to attain your wishes, my dear Huckaby,” replied Quixtus, reflectively. “If I did; I should be committing a good action, which, as you know, is entirely against my principles.” “I don’t yearn so much after goodness,” said Huckaby, “as after decency and cleanliness. I’ve no ambition to die a white-haired saint.” “All white-haired saints are whited sepulchres,” said Quixtus. In spite of regenerative impulses, Huckaby persuaded his patron to lunch at the hotel where he knew that Mrs. Fontaine and the newly arrived Lady Louisa Mailing had planned to lunch also. The establishment of informal relations was important. They entered the table d’hôte room, and, preceded by the maître d’hôtel, marched to the table reserved for them. About six tables away sat Mrs. Fontaine and her friend. She smiled a pleasant greeting. “Women can sometimes be exceedingly decorative,” remarked Quixtus, helping himself to sardines. “If they are not, they leave unfulfilled one of the main functions of their existence.” “Did you ever know a good woman?” “Mrs. Fontaine is one of the best I’ve ever known,” replied Huckaby, at a venture. The heart-breaking could be practised on a sweet and virtuous flower of a woman with much more villainous success than on a hardened coquette. Quixtus said nothing. His natural delicacy forbade the discussion of a specific woman’s moral attributes. The occupants of the two tables met after lunch in the lounge, and had coffee and cigarettes together. The men were presented to Lady Louisa Mailing, an aimless, dowdy woman of forty, running to fat. As far as could be gathered from her conversation, her two interests in life were Lena Fontaine and food in restaurants. In Mrs. Fontaine’s presence she spoke chiefly of the latter. When Mrs. Fontaine went up to her room for a forgotten powder-puff, leaving her with the men, she plunged with animation into eulogy of Mrs. Fontaine’s virtues. In this she was sincere. She believed in Mrs. Fontaine’s virtues, which, like the costermonger’s giant strawberries, lay ostentatiously at the top of her basket of qualities; and she was so stupid that her friend could always dissimulate from her incurious eyes the crushed and festering fruit below. “I always think it so sad for a sweet, beautiful woman like Lena to be alone in the world,” said Lady Louisa, in a soft, even voice. “But she’s so brave, so cheerful, so gentle.” “It’s a wonder she hasn’t married again,” said Huckaby. “I don’t think she ever will,” replied Lady Louisa; “unless she gets a man to understand her. And where is he to be found?” “Ah where?” said Huckaby, to whom as Mrs. Fontaine’s childhood friend this talk had been mainly addressed. Lady Louisa sighed sentimentally. She was an old maid, the seventh of eleven daughters of an impecunious Irish earl now defunct. Her face, such as it was, had been her fortune, and it had attracted no suitors.