dropped in between the acts to see what she thought of the singer or the
piece, and her swains were no longer contented to sit behind her chair
all the evening, seeing an empty corner of the stage across Georgia's
ivory shoulder, and hearing the voices of invisible actors in the brief
pauses of Georgie's subdued babble.

At fifty-five, Georgina Kirkbank told herself sadly enough that her day,
as a bright particular star, all-sufficient in her own radiance, was
gone. She could not live without her masculine circle, men who could
bring her all the news, the gossip of the clubs; where everything seemed
to become known as quickly as if each club had its own Asmodeus,
unroofing all the housetops of the West End for inspection every night.
She could not live without her courtiers; and to keep them about her she
knew that she must make her house pleasant. It was not enough to give
good dinners, elegant little suppers washed down by choicest wines; she
must also provide fair faces to smile upon the feast, and bright eyes to
sparkle in the subdued light of low shaded lamps, and many candles
twinkling under coloured shades.

'I am an old woman now,' Lady Kirkbank said to herself with a sigh, 'and
my own attractions won't keep my friends about me. _C'est trop connu
ça_.'

And now the house in Arlington Street in which feminine guests had been
as one in ten, opened its doors to the young and the fair. Pretty
widows, lively girls, young wives who were not too absurdly devoted to
their husbands, actresses of high standing and good looks, these began
to be welcomed effusively in Arlington Street. Lady Kirkbank began to
hunt for beauties to adorn her rooms, as she had hitherto hunted lions
to roar at her parties. She prided herself on being the first to