Valleys murmured with a laugh:

"You really are a terror, Babs."

But the sound of Mrs. Winlow's music had ceased--the men had come in. And
the faces of the four women hardened, as if they had slipped on masks;
for though this was almost or quite a family party, the Winlows being
second cousins, still the subject was one which each of these four in
their very different ways felt to be beyond general discussion. Talk,
now, began glancing from the war scare--Winlow had it very specially that
this would be over in a week--to Brabrook's speech, in progress at that
very moment, of which Harbinger provided an imitation. It sped to
Winlow's flight--to Andrew Grant's articles in the 'Parthenon'--to the
caricature of Harbinger in the 'Cackler', inscribed 'The New Tory. Lord
H-rb-ng-r brings Social Reform beneath the notice of his friends,' which
depicted him introducing a naked baby to a number of coroneted old
ladies. Thence to a dancer. Thence to the Bill for Universal Assurance.
Then back to the war scare; to the last book of a great French writer;
and once more to Winlow's flight. It was all straightforward and
outspoken, each seeming to say exactly what came into the head. For all
that, there was a curious avoidance of the spiritual significances of
these things; or was it perhaps that such significances were not seen?

Lord Dennis, at the far end of the room, studying a portfolio of
engravings, felt a touch on his cheek; and conscious of a certain
fragrance, said without turning his head:

"Nice things, these, Babs!"

Receiving no answer he looked up.

There indeed stood Barbara.

"I do hate sneering behind people's backs!"

There had always been good comradeship between these two, since the days
when Barbara, a golden-haired child, astride of a grey pony, had been his
morning companion in the Row all through the season. His riding days
were past; he had now no outdoor pursuit save fishing, which he followed
with the ironic persistence of a self-contained, high-spirited nature,
which refuses to admit that the mysterious finger of old age is laid
across it. But though she was no longer his companion, he still had a
habit of expecting her confidences; and he looked after her, moving away
from him to a window, with surprised concern.

It was one of those nights, dark yet gleaming, when there seems a flying
malice in the heavens; when the stars, from under and above the black
clouds, are like eyes frowning a