“Of course it’s what was sure to come of being mewed up for months and months in the country.  We’re out of everything, and the people who are having a good time are simply too busy to remember us.  We’re only asked to the things that are made up from visiting-lists.”

Madame de Trezac listened sympathetically, but did not suppress a candid answer.

“It’s not altogether that, my dear; Raymond’s not a man his friends forget.  It’s rather more, if you’ll excuse my saying so, the fact of your being—­you personally—­in the wrong set.”

“The wrong set?  Why, I’m in his set—­the one that thinks itself too good for all the others.  That’s what you’ve always told me when I’ve said it bored me.”

“Well, that’s what I mean—­” Madame de Trezac took the plunge.  “It’s not a question of your being bored.”

Undine coloured; but she could take the hardest thrusts where her personal interest was involved.  “You mean that I’m the bore, then?”

“Well, you don’t work hard enough—­you don’t keep up.  It’s not that they don’t admire you—­your looks, I mean; they think you beautiful; they’re delighted to bring you out at their big dinners, with the Sevres and the plate.  But a woman has got to be something more than good-looking to have a chance to be intimate with them:  she’s got to know what’s being said about things.  I watched you the other night at the Duchess’s, and half the time you hadn’t an idea what they were talking about.  I haven’t always, either; but then I have to put up with the big dinners.”

Undine winced under the criticism; but she had never lacked insight into the cause of her own failures, and she had already had premonitions of what Madame de Trezac so bluntly phrased.  When Raymond ceased to be interested in her conversation she had concluded it was the way of husbands; but since then it had been slowly dawning on her that she produced the same effect on others.  Her entrances were always triumphs; but they had no sequel.  As soon as people began to talk they ceased to see her.  Any sense of insufficiency exasperated her, and she had vague thoughts of cultivating herself, and went so far as to spend a morning in the Louvre and go to one or two lectures by a fashionable philosopher.  But though she returned from these expeditions charged with opinions, their expression did not excite the interest she had hoped.  Her views, if abundant, were confused, and the more she said the more nebulous they seemed to grow.  She was disconcerted, moreover, by finding that everybody appeared to know about the things she thought she had discovered, and her comments clearly produced more bewilderment than interest.

Remembering the attention she had attracted on her first appearance in Raymond’s world she concluded that she had “gone off” or grown dowdy, and instead of wasting more time in museums and lecture-halls she prolonged her hours at the dress-maker’s and gave up the rest of the day to the scientific cultivation of her beauty.