"I have had forty-seven seasons in London. That's a good many, you know.
Forty-seven seasons of débutantes and mothers tend toward enlightenment.
Now there is Agatha Slade, poor girl! She's of a kind I know by heart.
With birth and beauty, she is perfectly helpless. Her people are poor
enough to be entitled to aid from the Charity Organisation, and they
have had the indecency to present themselves with six daughters--six!
All with delicate skins and delicate little noses and heavenly eyes.
Most men can't afford them, and they can't afford most men. As soon as
Agatha begins to go off a little, she will have to step aside, if she
has not married. The others must be allowed their chance. Agatha has had
the advertising of the illustrated papers this season, and she has gone
well. In these days a new beauty is advertised like a new soap. They
haven't given them sandwich-men in the streets, but that is about all
that has been denied them. But Agatha has not had any special offer, and
I know both she and her mother are a little frightened. Alix must come
out next season, and they can't afford frocks for two. Agatha will have
to be sent to their place in Ireland, and to be sent to Castle Clare is
almost like being sent to the Bastille. She'll never get out alive.
She'll have to stay there and see herself grow thin instead of slim, and
colourless instead of fair. Her little nose will grow sharp, and she
will lose her hair by degrees."

"Oh!" Emily Fox-Seton gave forth sympathetically. "What a pity that
would be! I thought--I really thought--Lord Walderhurst seemed to admire
her."

"Oh, every one admires her, for that matter; but if they go no further
that will not save her from the Bastille, poor thing. There, Emily; we
must go to bed. We have talked enough."