more than pretty; and there's a certain cleverness
in her talk. But at her age this kind of thing is ruinous. I blame Mrs.
Lessingham. She should bid her stay at home and mind her baby."

"By-the-bye, what truth is there in that story? The Naples affair, you
know?"

"_N'en sais rien_. But I hear odd things about her husband. Mr.
Bickerdike knew him a few years ago. He ran through a fortune, and fell
into most disreputable ways of life. Somebody was saying that he got
his living as 'bus-conductor, or something of the kind."

"I could imagine that, from the look of him."

It was Mrs. Lessingham's Wednesday evening. The house at Craven Hill
opened its doors at ten o'clock, and until midnight there was no lack
of company. Singular people, more or less; distinguished from society
proper by the fact that all had a modicum of brains. Some came from
luxurious homes, some from garrets. Visitors from Paris were frequent;
their presence made a characteristic of the salon. This evening, for
instance, honour was paid by the hostess to M. _Amedeee_ Silvenoire,
whose experiment in unromantic drama had not long ago gloriously failed
at the Odeon; and Madame Jacquelin, the violinist, was looked for.

Mrs. Lessingham had not passed a season in London for several years.
When, at the end of April, she took this house, there came to live with
her the widow and daughter of a man of letters who had died in poverty.
She had known the Delphs in Paris, in the days when Cecily was with her
and in the winter just past she had come upon Irene Delph copying at
the Louvre; the girl showed a good deal of talent but was hard beset by
the difficulty of living whilst she worked. In the spirit of her
generous brother, Mrs. Lessingham persuaded the two to come and live
with her through the season; a room in the house was a studio for
Irene, who took to portraits. Mrs. Delph, a timid woman whose nerves
had failed under her misfortunes, did not appear on formal occasions
like the present, but Irene was becoming an ornament of the
drawing-room. To be sure, but for her good looks and her artistic
aptitude, she would not have been here-no reason, perhaps, for stinted
praise of her friend's generosity.

An enjoyable thing to see Mrs. Lessingham in conversation with one of
her French guests. She threw off full fifteen years, and looked thirty
at most. Her handsome features had a vivid play of expression in
harmony with the language she was speaking; her eye