'Well, I am dreadfully disappointed,' said Lady Windermere. 'I have
absolutely nothing to tell Sybil to-morrow. No one cares about
distant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago.
However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it
always does for church, you know. And now let us go to supper.
They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hot
soup. Francois used to make excellent soup once, but he is so
agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain
about him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess,
I am sure you are tired?'

'Not at all, dear Gladys,' answered the Duchess, waddling towards
the door. 'I have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I
mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my
tortoise-shell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my
lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, I'm sure';
and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs without
dropping her scent-bottle more than twice.

All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the
fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the same
sickening sense of coming evil. He smiled sadly at his sister, as
she swept past him on Lord Plymdale's arm, looking lovely in her
pink brocade and pearls, and he hardly heard Lady Windermere when
she called to him to follow her. He thought of Sybil Merton, and
the idea that anything could come between them made his eyes dim
with tears.

Looking at him, one would have said that Nemesis had stolen the