possessed her when she heard the voice of Henry Greech raised in
painful prominence at Lady Caroline's end of the table.

"I called on the Trudhams yesterday," he announced; "it was their
Silver Wedding, you know, at least the day before was. Such lots
of silver presents, quite a show. Of course there were a great
many duplicates, but still, very nice to have. I think they were
very pleased to get so many."

"We must not grudge them their show of presents after their twenty-
five years of married life," said Lady Caroline, gently; "it is the
silver lining to their cloud."

A third of the guests present were related to the Trudhams.

"Lady Caroline is beginning well," murmured Courtenay Youghal.

"I should hardly call twenty-five years of married life a cloud,"
said Henry Greech, lamely.

"Don't let's talk about married life," said a tall handsome woman,
who looked like some modern painter's conception of the goddess
Bellona; "it's my misfortune to write eternally about husbands and
wives and their variants. My public expects it of me. I do so
envy journalists who can write about plagues and strikes and
Anarchist plots, and other pleasing things, instead of being tied
down to one stale old topic."

"Who is that woman and what has she written?" Francesca asked
Youghal; she dimly remembered having seen her at one of Serena