h was intended to convey the full meaning of her words.

Cleopatra moved impatiently. Her mother always made her feel so
miserably defective, and this was hard to forgive.

Mrs. Delarayne settled herself elegantly in a wicker chair, took a
cigarette from a case, and snapped the case to with a decisive click.
She looked hot and a little tired, and as Denis proffered her a light he
noticed the beads of perspiration amid the powder round her eyes.

"I've had the most tiresome evening imaginable," she croaked.

"I thought so," said her daughter. "We heard you."

"Really men are most ridiculous cowards," she cried, frowning hard at
Denis. "There's Sir Joseph, for instance. He's failed ignominiously with
Lord Henry; has been unable to induce him to give up his absurd mission
to China, and instead of coming here to tell me all about it, he keeps
me thirty-five minutes brawling at him over the 'phone in this heat,
simply because he daren't face me!"

Denis stretched out his legs before him and clasped his hands at the
back of his head. This was a signal, well known to the women, that a
long analytical speech was to follow, and Mrs. Delarayne looked wearily
away, as if to imply before the start that she was not in the least
interested.

"It's all organisation nowadays," Denis began. "If you can organise your
machinery with the help of good subordinates, the trick is done. And
since Sir Joseph simply exudes lubricants, everything works smoothly and
successfully. He----"

"Don't talk of exuding lubricants in this weather, please!" Mrs.
Delarayne interrupted. "I suffer from the heat almost as badly as
butter."

It was becoming clear to Cleopatra that her mother was for some reason
intent on chastising their visitor, and she watched the interesting woman
before her with her filial feeling in almost complete abeyance. The
children of remarkable parents frequently do this after they have turned a
certain age. It is not disrespect, but merely absent-mindedness.

It was almost dark now, and Denis noticed Mrs. Delarayne's fine profile
outlined against the lighted rooms of the house. There was a sadness
delineated on her handsome, aristocratic face, which, as he had observed
before, was to be seen only when her features were quite still. Could
this apparently gay widow still be mourning her husband? Denis was
sufficiently romantic and ill-informed to imagine this just possible.

"So the interview between Sir Joseph and Lord He