"It's no use saying that now," said Lady Groombridge, with an air of
ineffable wisdom.

Molly Dexter bit her tiny evening handkerchief, and her grey eyes
laughed at the moonlight.

"Well, Rose, I can't say you are much comfort to me," the hostess went
on presently, with a dawn of humour on her countenance as she crossed
one leg over the other.

"But, my dear, what can I say?"

The tall, white figure, brush in hand, rose and stood over the elderly
woman in the chair. Rose had had the healthy development of a girlhood
in the country, but her regular features were more deeply marked now and
there were dark lines under her clear, blue eyes.

"Do you think," said the hostess in a brooding way, "that Mrs.
What's-her-name Green would tell you how much he lost, Rose, if you went
to her room? Of course, I can't possibly ask her."

"Oh no; she thinks me a goody-goody old frump."

At the same moment another brush at the splendid hair betrayed a
half-consciousness of the grace of her own movements.

"She wouldn't say a word to me--she is much more likely to tell one of
the men. Perhaps she will tell Edmund Grosse to-morrow; he is so easy to
talk to."