"You saw who that young lady was?" said Mrs. Frant to Miss Glenwilliam. "I
thought you knew her."

"Marcia Coryston? I have just been introduced to her. But she isn't allowed
to know me!" The laugh that accompanied the words had a pleasant childish
chuckle in it.

Mrs. Frant laughed also.

"Girls, I suppose, have to do what they're told," she said, dryly. "But it
_was_ Arthur Coryston, wasn't it, who sent you that extra order for
to-day, Enid?"

"Yes," laughed the girl again; "but I am quite certain he didn't tell his
mother! We must really be civil and go back to hear him speak. His mother
will think it magnificent, anyway. She probably wrote it for him. He's
quite a nice boy--but--"

She shook her head over him, softly smiling to herself. The face which
smiled had no very clear title to beauty, but it was arresting and
expressive, and it had beautiful points. Like the girl's figure and dress,
it suggested a self-conscious, fastidious personality: egotism, with charm
for its weapon.

"I wonder what Lady Coryston thinks of her eldest son's performances in the
papers this morning!" said lively little Mrs. Frant, throwing up hands and
eyes.

Mrs. Verity, a soft, faded woman, smiled responsively.