clear-eyed and all her face serene, except for a little pucker of the brows
which shows a puzzled mind upon some important matters. To become almost an
ideal hostess has been her achievement; and in her own home, as now, this
grace is written upon every movement. Her eyes pass over the head of a girl,
sitting in a low chair by a little table, with the shaded lamplight falling
on her face. This is_ LUCY DAVENPORT; _twenty-three, undefeated in anything
as yet and so unsoftened. The book on her lap is closed, for she has been
listening to the music. It is possibly some German philosopher, whom she
reads with a critical appreciation of his shortcomings. On the sofa near her
lounges_ MRS. O'CONNELL; _a charming woman, if by charming you understand a
woman who converts every quality she possesses into a means of attraction,
and has no use for any others. On the sofa opposite sits_ MISS TREBELL. _In
a few years, when her hair is quite grey, she will assume as by right the
dignity of an old maid. Between these two in a low armchair is_ LADY
DAVENPORT. _She has attained to many dignities. Mother and grandmother, she
has brought into the world and nourished not merely life but character. A
wonderful face she has, full of proud memories and fearless of the future.
Behind her, on a sofa between the windows, is_ WALTER KENT. _He is just what
the average English father would like his son to be. You can see the light
shooting out through the windows and mixing with moonshine upon a smooth
lawn. On your left is a door. There are many books in the room, hardly any
pictures, a statuette perhaps. The owner evidently sets beauty of form
before beauty of colour. It is a woman's room and it has a certain delicate
austerity. By the time you have observed everything_ MRS. FARRANT _has
played Chopin's prelude opus 28, number 20 from beginning to end._

LADY DAVENPORT. Thank you, my dear Julia.

WALTER KENT. [_Protesting._] No more?