widow who was persistently hospitable because she could not bear to be
alone. To-night she had a large party. When Doctor Isaacson came into
the room on the ground floor where Lady Somerson always received her
guests before a dinner, he found her dressed in rusty black, with her
grey hair done anyhow, managing and directing the conversation of quite
a crowd of important and interesting persons, most of whom had got well
away from their first youth, but were so important and interesting that
they did not care at all what age they were. It was Wednesday night, and
the flavour of the party was political; but among the men were two
soldiers, and among the women was a well-known beauty, who cared very
little for politics, but a great deal for good talk. She was one of
those beauties who reign only in faithful London, partly because of
London's faithfulness, but partly also because of their excellent
digestions, good spirits, and entire lack of pretence. Her name was Mrs.
Derringham; her age was forty-eight. She was not "made up." She made no
attempt to look any younger than she was. Lively, energetic, without
wrinkles, and apparently without vanity, she neither forbade nor
encouraged people to think of her years, but attracted them by her
splendid figure, her animation, her zest and her readiness to enjoy the
passing hour.

Doctor Isaacson knew her well, and as he shook hands with her he thought
of Mrs. Chepstow and of the gospel of Materialism. This woman certainly
knew how to enjoy the good things of this world; but she had interests
that were not selfish: her husband, her children, her charities, her
dependents. She had struck roots deep down into the rich and rewarding
soil of the humanities. Women like Mrs. Chepstow struck no roots into
any soil. Was it any wonder if the days came and the nights when the
souls of them were weary? Was it any wonder if the weariness set its
mark upon their beauty?