ratification. Mr.
Grebby, his large boots on the brightly polished fender, his red face
wreathed in smiles, and slowly filling a short clay pipe, as bucolic a
specimen of manhood as Copthorne could produce.

Lastly, Eleanor, looking perfectly fairy-like under the red lamp,
caressing the old dog with her slim white hands, and talking first to
one guest, then to the other, with supreme good nature, her father's
basket of apples on her knee.

"I must send some of these pears in to you, Giddy," she says, "I can't
spare the apples, but your cook may like to stew----"

She pauses, reading her friend's expression of disdain.

She stammers something unintelligible to hide her confusion, wondering
what she has said to offend, and changing the subject, asks
hesitatingly:

"Did--er did you put me up for the 'Butterflies?'"

Mrs. Mounteagle had only that morning requested Lady MacDonald to
second Eleanor.

Now she grows crimson at the thought, for Lady MacDonald is her trump
card in the club.

"Thinking it over," replies Giddy. "I am quite sure Mr. Roche won't
approve of us poor little Butterflies. He will imagine that a club
must necessarily be emancipated, that it will lead you into latchkey
habits, and advance your ideas too rapidly. I should advise you to
stay at home, my dear, and" (with a cynical little smile) "stew your
pears."

Mrs. Grebby has drawn the parish magazine from the recesses of an
enormous pocket in her petticoat, and hands it to her daughter.

"I thought you'd like to read the news," she says. "Mrs. King's baby
was christened last Sunday, and the little Browns have spread the
measles in the schools."

Lady MacDonald and Giddy exchange glances that palpably say: "Why don't
we go?"

The fact is Mrs. Mounteagle has been rooted to the spot, paralysed as
it were by a sense of shame and humiliation.

Lady MacDonald has watched the scene as at a play, a comedy in
low-life, acted for the benefit of the stalls and boxes.

"We really must go," murmurs Giddy hastily, catching her breath as Mr.
Grebby lights his pipe with a match he has rasped along his trousers.
She rises, gathering up a long feather boa to wind round her neck.

Lady MacDonald follows her example, her jingling chatelaine clanks
irritatingly, as if protesting at being found in such company.

She draws on a light kid glove, proffering Eleanor her finger-tips.

"_Good_-bye, Mrs. Roche," she drawls. "I have so enjoyed a peep at
yo