Mrs. Ralston’s faded face flushed faintly.  She worked on in silence.

For a space Netta Ermsted smoked her cigarette with her eyes fixed upon space; then very suddenly she spoke again.  “I wonder if Ralph Dacre committed suicide.”

Mrs. Ralston started at the abrupt surmise.  She looked up for the first time.  “Really, my dear!  What an extraordinary thing to say!”

Little Mrs. Ermsted jerked up her chin aggressively.  “Why extraordinary, I wonder?  Nothing could be more extraordinary than his death.  Either he jumped over the precipice or she pushed him over when he wasn’t looking.  I wonder which.”

But at that Mrs. Ralston gravely arose and rebuked her.  She never suffered any nervous qualms when dealing with this volatile friend of hers.  “It is more than foolish,” she said with decision; “it is wicked, to talk like that.  I will not sit and listen to you.  You have a very mischievous brain, Netta.  You ought to keep it under better control.”

Mrs. Ermsted stretched out her dainty feet in front of her and made a grimace.  “When you call me Netta, I always know it is getting serious,” she remarked.  “I withdraw it all, my dear angel, with the utmost liberality.  You shall see how generous I can be to my supplanter.  But do like a good soul finish those tiresome tucks before you begin to be really cross with me!  Poor little Tessa really needs that frock, and ayah is such a shocking worker.  I shan’t be able to turn to you for anything when the estimable Mrs. Dacre is here.  In fact I shall be driven to Mrs. Burton for companionship and counsel, and shall become more catty than ever.”

“My dear, please”—­Mrs. Ralston spoke very earnestly—­“do not imagine for an instant that having that poor girl to care for will make the smallest difference to my friendship for you!  I hope to see as much of you and little Tessa as I have ever seen.  I feel that Stella would be fond of children.  Your little one would be a comfort to any sore heart.”

“She can be a positive little devil,” observed Tessa’s mother dispassionately.  “But it’s better than being a saint, isn’t it?  Look at that hateful child, Cedric Burton—­detestable little ape!  That Burton complacency gets on my nerves, especially in a child.  But then look at the Burtons!  How could they help having horrible little self-opinionated apes for children?”

“My dear, your tongue—­your tongue!” protested Mrs. Ralston.

Mrs. Ermsted shot it out and in again with an impudent smile.  “Well, what’s the matter with it?  It’s quite a candid one—­like your own.  A little more pointed perhaps and something venomous upon occasion.  But it has its good qualities also.  At least it is never insincere.”

“Of that I am sure.”  Mrs. Ralston spoke with ready kindliness.  “But, oh, my dear, if it were only a little more charitable!”