oducing and educating a handsome daughter if
she did not, in some more positive way, contribute to her parent's
advancement?

III

"IT'S about Hermy," Mrs. Newell said, rising from the heap of
embroidered cushions which formed the background of her afternoon
repose.

Her sitting-room at Ritz's was full of penetrating warmth and
fragrance. Long-stemmed roses filled the vases on the chimney-piece, in
which a fire sparkled with that effect of luxury which fires produce
when the weather is not cold enough to justify them. On the
writing-table, among notes and cards, and signed photographs of
celebrities, Mrs. Newell's gold inkstand, her jewelled penholder, her
heavily-monogrammed despatch-box, gave back from their expensive
surfaces the glint of the flame, which sought out and magnified the
orient of the pearls among the lady's laces and found a mirror in the
pinky polish of her finger-tips. It was just such a scene as a little
September fire, lit for show and not for warmth, would delight to dwell
on and pick out in all its opulent details; and even Garnett, inured to
Mrs. Newell's capacity for extracting manna from the desert, reflected
that she must have found new fields to glean.

"It's about Hermy," she repeated, making room for him among the
cushions. "I had to see you at once. We came over yesterday from
London."

Garnett, seating himself, continued his leisurely survey of the room.
In the glitter of Mrs. Newell's magnificence Hermione, as usual, faded
out of sight, and he hardly noticed her mother's allusion.

"I have never seen you more resplendent," he remarked.

She received the tribute with complacency. "The rooms are not bad, are
they? We came over with the Woolsey Hubbards (you've heard of them, of
course?--they're from Detroit), and really they do things very
decently. Their motor-car met us at Boulogne, and the courier always
wires ahead to have the rooms filled with flowers. This _salon,_ is
really a part of their suite. I simply couldn't have afforded it
myself."

She delivered these facts in a high decisive voice, which had a note
akin to the clink of her many bracelets and the rattle of her ringed
hands against the enamelled cigarette-case which she extended to
Garnett after helping herself from its contents.

"You are always meeting such charming people," said Garnett with mild
irony; and, reverting to her first remark, he bethought himself to add:
"I hope Miss Hermione is not ill?"

"I