By the time the sweets appeared there were two groups at the table, Dora and Densley, averted towards each other in animated talk. George and Michael responding to everything Miriam offered, usually both at once, refusing to blend. Here, already, at her first party, was the English separation. No general conversation. Not even the English alternative, the duel between two men; the prize-fight. The party had fallen to bits. But it was worth while. For on the far side of the table, Dora’s sweet mezzo was dominating Densley’s baritone. She had tackled him. It was his opportunity, perhaps his utmost chance of being lifted outside his complacent dogmas. It was presently evident that he was remaining impermeable. Though still listening and responding, he had lost interest, discovered that she did not for all her soft appeal, fall into either of the classes he thought he understood, either into the fascinating, the maternal, or the saintly. His mind gave her its ear, but his eyes with their everlasting message went again and again to a far corner of the room. Which of the disdainful club residents had become his chosen companion? Dora was questioning him now, collecting physiology. Her voice penetrated the subdued, rapidly thinning talk coming from the small tables. Glancing round as if in search of an attendant, Miriam discovered the long row of diners, lingering over their coffee, one and all intent upon the centre table. And in the far corner that was drawing Densley’s glances, Mrs. Wheeler, talking with Miss Holland and her daughter, both with their backs to the room and unable to see the distant bourne of her eyes, dark and gleaming above the heightened flush upon her cheeks as she sat there, mutely wise, telling him a plain tale of gallant endeavour. The women at the table near the fireside were now openly staring. As if by arrangement, by some operation of the fascinated attention of these two listeners, there was a sudden silence all over the room. “Of course,” said Dora’s voice into the midst of it, dreamy as her pose, elbow on table, hand supporting chin, brow lifted in thought above eyes gazing into space: “we shan’t get parthenogenesis until we want it.” The silence ended in abrupt risings and departures. “Not in our time,” Densley had said, encircling the departing ladies with a smile that was not only homage and benediction, but glee. Private glee over the addition to his store of anecdotes, of such a fine new specimen. He, at least, thought Miriam, as they rose from the table, would not regret the evening spent outside his world. Michael, half risen, bowing towards the centre of the group, had something to say. One of his generalisations. The party was united at last.