Joan's eyes followed. It was certainly an odd collection. Flossie, in
her hunt for brains, had issued her invitations broadcast; and her fate
had been that of the Charity concert. Not all the stars upon whom she
had most depended had turned up. On the other hand not a single freak
had failed her. At the moment, the centre of the room was occupied by a
gentleman and two ladies in classical drapery. They were holding hands
in an attitude suggestive of a bas-relief. Joan remembered them, having
seen them on one or two occasions wandering in the King's Road, Chelsea;
still maintaining, as far as the traffic would allow, the bas-relief
suggestion; and generally surrounded by a crowd of children, ever hopeful
that at the next corner they would stop and do something really
interesting. They belonged to a society whose object was to lure the
London public by the force of example towards the adoption of the early
Greek fashions and the simpler Greek attitudes. A friend of Flossie's
had thrown in her lot with them, but could never be induced to abandon
her umbrella. They also, as Joan told herself, were reformers. Near to
them was a picturesque gentleman with a beard down to his waist whose
"stunt"--as Flossie would have termed it--was hygienic clothing; it
seemed to contain an undue proportion of fresh air. There were ladies in
coats and stand-up collars, and gentlemen with ringlets. More than one
of the guests would have been better, though perhaps not happier, for a
bath.

"I fancy that's the idea," said Joan. "What will you do if you fail? Go
back to China?"

"Yes," he answered. "And take her with me. Poor little girl."

Joan rather resented his tone.