Mrs. Milden," he went on, "has the smile of La Gioconda, and hands and
hair for Leonardo to paint. Lady Gloucester," he continued, leaving
out the Christian name, "is English, like one of Shakespeare's women,
Desdemona or Imogen; and Lady Irene has no nationality, she belongs to
the dream worlds of Shelley and D'Annunzio: she is the guardian Lady of
Shelley's 'Sensitiva,' the vision of the lily. 'Quale un vaso liturgico
d'argento.' And you, madame, you take away all my sense of criticism.
'Vous me troublez trop pour que je definisse votre genre de beaute.'"

Mrs. Milden was soon engaged in a deep tete-a-tete with Mr. Peebles,
who was heard every now and then to say, "Quite, quite," Miss Tring was
holding forth to Silvester on French sculpture, and Silvester now and
again said: "Oh! really!" in the tone of intense interest which his
friends knew indicated that he was being acutely bored. Lady Hyacinth
was discussing Socialism with Osmond Hall, Lady Herman was discussing
the theory of evolution with Professor Newcastle, Mrs. Lockton,
the question of the French Church, with Faubourg; and Blenheim was
discharging molten fragments of embryo exordiums and perorations on the
subject of the stage to Willmott; in fact, there was a general buzz of
conversation.

"Have you been to see Antony and Cleopatra?" asked Willmott of the
stranger.

"Yes," said the neighbour, "I went last night; many authors have
treated the subject, and the version I saw last night was very pretty. I
couldn't get a programme so I didn't see who----"

"I think my version," interrupted Willmott, with pride, "is admitted to
be the best."

"Ah! it is your version!" said the stranger. "I beg your pardon, I think
you treated the subject very well."

"Yes," said Willmott, "it is ungrateful material, but I think I made
something fine of it."

"No doubt, no doubt," said the stranger.

"Do tell us," Mrs. Baldwin was heard to ask M. Faubourg across the
table, "what the young generation are doing in France? Who are the young
novelists?"

"There are no young novelists worth mentioning," answered M. Faubourg.

Miss Tring broke in and said she considered "Le Visage Emerveille," by
the Comtesse de Noailles, to be the most beautiful book of the century,
with the exception, perhaps, of the "Tagebuch einer Verlorenen."

But from the end of the table Blenheim's utterance was heard
preponderating over that of his neighbours. He was making a fine
speech on the mod