“You know,” she observed, “I believe I’m only just beginning to appreciate Mr. Farron. He’s so wise. I see what you meant about his being strong, and he’s so clever. He knows just what you’re thinking all the time. Isn’t it nice that he likes Pete? Did he say anything more about him after you went up-stairs? I mean, he really does like him, doesn’t he? He doesn’t say that just to please me?” Presently Vincent came back fully dressed and sat down to his breakfast. Oddly enough, there was a spirit of real gaiety in the air. “What was it you were going to say to me?” Mathilde asked greedily. Farron looked at her blankly. Adelaide knew that he had quite forgotten the phrase, but he concealed the fact by not allowing the least illumination of his expression as he remembered. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I wish to correct myself. I told you that Mrs. Wayne was an elderly wood-nymph; but I was wrong. Of course the truth is that she’s a very young witch.” Mathilde laughed, but not whole-heartedly. She had already identified herself so much with the Waynes that she could not take them quite in this tone of impersonality. Farron threw down his napkin, stood up, pulled down his waistcoat. “I must be off,” he said. He went and kissed his wife. Both had to nerve themselves for that. She held his arm in both her hands, feeling it solid, real, and as hard as iron. “You’ll be up-town early?” “I’ve a busy day.” “By four?” “I’ll telephone.” She loved him for refusing to yield to her just at this moment of all moments. Some men, she thought, would have hidden their own self-pity under the excuse of the necessity of being kind to her. She was to lunch out with a few critical contemporaries. She was horrified when she looked at herself by morning light. Her skin had an ivory hue, and there were many fine wrinkles about her eyes. She began to repair these damages with the utmost frankness, talking meantime to Mathilde and the maid. She swept her whole face with a white lotion, rouged lightly, but to her very eyelids, touched a red pencil to her lips, all with discretion. The result was satisfactory. The improvement in her appearance made her feel braver. She couldn’t have faced these people--she did not know whether to think of them as intimate enemies or hostile friends--if she had been looking anything but her best. But they were just what she needed; they would be hard and amusing and keep her at some tension. She thought rather crossly that she could not sit through a meal at home and listen to Mathilde rambling on about love and Mr. Farron. She was inexcusably late, and they had sat down to luncheon--three men and two women--by the time she arrived. They had all been, or had wanted to go, to an auction sale of _objets d’art_ that had taken place the night before. They were discussing it, praising their own purchases, and decrying the value of everybody else’s when Adelaide came in.