Imagine any one’s not knowing!  Miss Fenimer marveled.  “Why, she draws my bath and puts out my things, and while I’m taking my bath, she straightens the room and lights the fire, if it’s cold, and brings in my breakfast-tray and my letters.  And by half-past ten, I’m finally dressed if no one has come in to delay me, only some one always has.  Last winter my time was immensely occupied by two friends of mine who had both fallen in love with the same man—­one of them was married to him—­and they used to come every day and confide in me.  You have no idea how amusing it was.  He behaved shockingly, but I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him.  They were both such determined women.  Finally I went to him, and told him how it was I knew so much about his affairs, and said I thought he ought to try and make up his mind which of them he really did care for.  And what do you think he said?  That he had always been in love with me.”  She laughed.  “How absurdly things happen, don’t they?”

“Good Heavens!” said Riatt.

“But even at the worst, I’m generally out by noon, and get a walk.  I’m rather dependent on exercise, and then I lunch with some one or other—­”

“Men or women?”

“Either or both.  And then after lunch I drive with some one, or go to see pictures or hear music, and then I like to be at home by tea time, because that’s, of course, the hour every one counts on finding you; and then there’s dressing and going out to dinner, and very often something afterwards.”

“Good Lord,” said Riatt again, and after a moment he added:  “And does that life amuse you?”

“No, but it doesn’t bore me as much as doing things that are more trouble.”

“What sort of things?”

“Oh, being on committees that you don’t really take any interest in.”  She rather enjoyed his amazement.

“Now tell me one thing more,” he said.  “What would you do if you had to earn your living?”

The true answer was that she would marry Edward Hickson, but, though heretofore she had been fairly candid, she thought on this point a little dissembling was permissible.  “I should starve, I suppose,” she returned gaily.

“And suppose you fell in love with a poor man?”

She grew grave at once.  “Oh, that’s a dreadful thing to happen to one,” she said.  “I’ve had two friends who did that.”  She almost shuddered.  “One actually married him.”

“And what happened to her?”

Miss Fenimer shook her head.  “I don’t know.  She’s living in the suburbs somewhere.  I haven’t seen her for ages.”

“And the other?”

“She was more practical.  She married him to a rich widow ten years older than he was.  That provided for him, you see, at least.  But it turned out worse than the other case.”

“How?”

“Why, he fell in love with this other woman—­”

“His wife, you mean?”

“Yes.  Imagine it!  Men are so fickle.”