brother man and emulated him in ready give and take.
Jeffrey forsook the rail which had subtly marked his distance from her;
he took a chair, and put his feet up on the rail. Madame Beattie's
neatly shod and very small feet went up on a chair, and she tipped the
one she was sitting in at a dangerous angle while she exhaled
luxuriously, and so Lydia, coming round the corner in a simple curiosity
to know who was there, found them, laughing uproariously and dim with
smoke. Lydia had her opinions about smoking. She had seen women indulge
in it at some of the functions where she and Anne danced, but she had
never found a woman of this stamp doing it with precisely this air.
Indeed, Lydia had never seen a woman of Madame Beattie's stamp in her
whole life. She stopped short, and the two could not at once get hold of
themselves in their peal of accordant mirth. But Lydia had time to see
one thing for a certainty. Jeff's face had cleared of its brooding and
its intermittent scowl. He was enjoying himself. This, she thought, in a
sudden rage of scorn, was the kind of thing he enjoyed: not Farvie, not
Anne's gentle ministrations, but the hooting of a horrible old woman.
Madame Beattie saw her and straightened some of the laughing wrinkles
round her eyes.

"Well, well!" said she. "Who's this?"

Then Jeffrey, becoming suddenly grave, as if, Lydia thought, he ought to
be ashamed of laughing in such company, sprang to his feet, and threw
away his cigarette.

"Madame Beattie," said he, "this is Miss Lydia French."

Madame Beattie did not rise, as who, indeed, so plumed and
black-velveted should for a slip of a creature trembling with futile
rage over a brother proved wanting in ideals? She extended one hand,
while the other removed the cigarette from her lips and held it at a
becoming distance.

"And who's Miss Lydia French?" said she. Then, as Lydia, pink with
embarrassment and disapproval, made no sign, she added peremptorily,
"Come here, my dear."

Lydia came. It was true that Madame Beattie had attained to privilege
through courts and high estate. When she herself had ruled by the
prerogative of a perfect throat and a mind attuned to it, she had
imbibed a sense of power which was still dividend-paying even now,
though the throat was dead to melody. When she really asked you to do
anything, you did it, that was all. She seldom asked now, because her
attitude was all careless tolerance, keen to the main chance but lax in
exa