chagrin to see the politely bored old face suddenly lit up with reawakened interest. For a moment or two Lena Fontaine flashed into the talk, determined to offer battle; but after a while she felt dominated, cowed, with no fight left in her. The other woman ruled triumphant. Tommy could not keep his eyes off Clementina, and neglected Etta and his left-hand neighbour shamefully. An unprecedented rosiness of fingernails caught his keen vision. In awe-stricken tones he whispered to Etta: “Manicured!” “Go on with your dinner,” said Etta, “and don’t stare, Tommy. It’s rude.” “She should have given us warning,” groaned Tommy. “We’re too young to stand it.” The exquisitely cooked and served meal proceeded. The French chef whom Clementina had engaged and to whom she had given full scope for his art had felt like an architect unrestricted by site or expense who can put into concrete form the dreams of a lifetime. John Powersfoot, the sculptor, sitting next to Lady Louisa, cried out to his host: “This is not a dinner you’re giving us, Quixtus, it’s a poem.” Lady Louisa ate on, too much absorbed in flavours for articulate thought. Quixtus smiled. “I’m not responsible. The mistress of the feast is facing me at the other end.” Powersfoot, who knew the Clementina of everyday life, threw up his hands in a Latin gesture which he had learned at the Beaux-Arts and of which he was proud. “The most remarkable woman of the century.” “I think you’re right,” said Quixtus. He looked down the table and caught her eye and exchanged smiles. Now that he could adjust his mind to the concept of Clementina transfigured, he felt conscious of a breathless admiration. He grew absurdly impatient of the social conventions which pinned him in his seat leagues of lacquer and orchids away from her. Idiotic envy of the two men whom she was fascinating by her talk entered his heart. She was laughing, showing her white strong teeth, as only once before she had shown her teeth to him. He longed to escape from the vivaciously inane Lady Radfield and join the group at the other end of the table. Now and then his eye rested on Lena Fontaine; but she had almost faded out of sight. At the end of the dinner he held the door open for the ladies to pass out. Clementina, immediately preceded by Etta, whispered a needless recommendation not to linger. The door closed. Etta put her arm round Clementina’s waist. “Oh, darling, you look too magnificent for words. But why didn’t you tell me? Why did you make a fool of me about the old black dress?” Clementina disengaged the girl’s arm gently. “My child,” she said. “If I have the extra pressure of a feather on me, I’ll yell. I’m suffering the tortures of the damned.” “Oh, poor darling.” “It’s worth it, though,” said Clementina.