indefinable persuasion that the ladies had been criticising
Britten's share in our talk in an altogether unfavourable spirit.
Mrs. Edward evidently thought him aggressive and impertinent, and
Margaret with a quiet firmness that brooked no resistance, took him
at once into a corner and showed him Italian photographs by Coburn.
We dispersed early.

I walked with Britten along the Chelsea back streets towards
Battersea Bridge--he lodged on the south side.

"Mrs. Millingham's a dear," he began.

"She's a dear."

"I liked her demand for a hansom because a four-wheeler was too
safe."

"She was worked up," I said. "She's a woman of faultless character,
but her instincts, as Altiora would say, are anarchistic--when she
gives them a chance."

"So she takes it out in hansom cabs."

"Hansom cabs."

"She's wise," said Britten. . . .

"I hope, Remington," he went on after a pause, "I didn't rag your
other guests too much. I've a sort of feeling at moments--
Remington, those chaps are so infernally not--not bloody. It's part