s and Fred
Ryley. She made him tall as herself, handsome as herself, and like
herself elegant. Shrewd, clever, and passably virtuous, he was
nevertheless distinctly capable of follies; but he told her everything,
even the worst, and though sometimes she frowned he smiled away the
frown. He adored her; he appreciated all the feminine in her; he
yielded to her whims; he kissed her chin and her wrist, held her
sunshade, opened doors for her, allowed her to beat him at tennis, and
deliciously frightened her by driving her very fast round corners in a
very high dog-cart. And if occasionally she said, 'I am not as young as
I was, Gerald,' he always replied: 'Oh rot, mater!'

When Ethel or Milly remarked at breakfast, as they did now and then,
that Mr. Twemlow had not fulfilled his promise of writing, Leonora would
answer evenly, 'No, I expect he's forgotten us.' And she would go and
live with her son for a little.

* * * * *

She summoned this Gerald--and it was for the last time--as she stood
irresolutely waiting for her husband at the door of the ladies'
cloak-room in the Town Hall. She was dressed in black mousseline de
soie. The corsage, which fitted loosely except at the waist and the
shoulders, where it was closely confined, was not too low, but it
disclosed the beautiful diminutive rondures above the armpits, and,
behind, the fine hollow of her back. The sleeves were long and full with
tight wrists, ending in black lace. A band of pale pink silk, covered
with white lace, wandered up one sleeve, crossed her breast in strict
conformity with the top of the corsage, and wandered down the other
sleeve; at the armpits, below the rondures, this band was punctuated
with a pink rose. An extremely narrow black velvet ribbon clasped her
neck. From the belt, which was pink, the full skirt ran down in a
thousand perpendicular pleats. The effect of the loose corsage and of
the belt on Leonora's perfect figure was to make her look girlish,
ingenuous, immaculate, and with a woman's instinct she heightened the
effect by swinging her programme restlessly on its ivory-tinted cord.

They had arrived somewhat late, owing partly to John's indecision and
partly to an accident with Rose's costume. On reaching the Town Hall,
not only Ethel and Milly, but Rose also, had deserted Leonora eagerly,
impatiently, as ducklings scurry into a pond; they passed through the
cloak-room in a moment, Rose first; Rose was h