“I fear our Tobin tubes get choked up in London,” she said with a little laugh. “Even if they did n't they are wretched things, which create draughts; so anyway our souls are free from chills. Look at that woman over there talking to Captain Orton--every one knows he's paymaster-general. A breath of fresh air in Mrs. Chance's soul would give it rheumatic fever.” The abominable slander falling cynically from young lips brought a look of disapproval into Jimmie Padgate's eyes. “Why do you say such things?” he asked. “You know you don't believe them.” “I do believe them,” she replied defiantly. “Why shouldn't one believe the bad things one hears of one's neighbours? It's a vastly more entertaining faith than belief in their virtues. Virtue--being its own reward--is deadly stale to one's friends and unprofitable to oneself.” “Cynicism seems cheap to-day,” said Jimmie, with a smile that redeemed his words from impertinence. “Won't you give me something of yourself a little more worth having?” Norma, who was leaning back in her chair fanning herself languidly, suddenly bent forward, with curious animation in her cold face. “I don't know who you are or what you are,” she exclaimed. “Why should you want more than the ordinary futilities of after-dinner talk?” “Because one has only to look at you,” he replied, “to see that it must be very easy to get. You have beauty inside as well as outside, and everybody owes what is beautiful and good in them to their fellow-creatures.” “I don't see why. According to you, women ought to go about like mediaeval saints.” “Every woman is a saint in the depths of her heart,” said Jimmie. “You are an astonishing person,” replied Norma. The conversation ended there, for Morland King came up with Constance Deering: he florid, good-looking, perfectly groomed and dressed, the type of the commonplace, well-fed, affluent Briton; she a pretty, fragile butterfly of a woman. Jimmie rose and was led off to another part of the room by his hostess. King dropped into the chair Jimmie had vacated. “I see you have been sampling my friend Jimmie Padgate. What do you make of him?” “I have just told him he was an astonishing person,” said Norma. “Dear old Jimmie! He's the best fellow in the world,” said King, laughing. “A bit Bohemian and eccentric--artists generally are--” “Oh, he's an artist?” inquired Norma. “He just manages to make a living by it, poor old chap! He has never come off, somehow.” “Another neglected genius?” “I don't know about that,” replied Morland King in a matter-of-fact way, not detecting the sneer in the girl's tone. “I don't think he's a great swell--I'm no judge, you know. But he has had a bad time. Anyway, he always comes up smiling. The more he gets knocked the more cheerful he seems to grow. I never met any one like him. The most generous, simple-minded beggar living.” “He must be wonderful to make you enthusiastic,” said Norma.