"A beautiful child—no more!" answered Mrs. Marvelle,—then, studying with some gravity the brilliant brunette face before her, she added in a whisper, "Leave her alone, Clara,—don't make her miserable! You know what I mean! It wouldn't take much to break her heart."
Clara laughed harshly and played with her fan.
"Dear me, Mimsey! . . . you are perfectly outrageous! Do you think I'm an ogress ready to eat her up? On the contrary, I mean to be a friend to her."
Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said; "only some friends are worse than declared enemies."
Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders.
"Go along, Mimsey,—go home to bed!" she exclaimed impatiently. "You are insensé! I hate sentimental philosophy and copy-book platitudes!" She laughed again and folded her hands with an air of mock penitence, "There! I didn't mean to be rude! Good-night, dear old darling!"
"Good-night, Clara!" and Mrs. Marvelle, summoning her timid husband from some far corner, where he had remained in hiding, took her departure with much stateliness.
A great many people were going down to supper by this time, but Sir Philip was tired of the heat and glare and noise, and whispered as much to Thelma, who at once advanced to bid her hostess farewell.
"Won't you have some supper?" inquired her ladyship. "Don't go yet!"