again before we started, because I hadn’t got the right pair of shoes on—­rather a tight pair—­however, I put them on.  And there was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and he said, “Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?” Well, of course, I was only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don’t know, but, of course, I never told her.  And when we got home after the dance, I went up to her room—­as soon as I’d got my shoes off—­and said, “Mother, I have some wonderful news for you,” and she said, “Not Mr. Knowle—­Henry?” and I said, “’M,” rather bright-eyed you know, and wanting to cry.  And she said, “Oh, my darling child!” and—­Jane, where’s my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that’s really all, you know, except that—­(she dabs her eyes again)—­I’m afraid I’m feeling rather overcome.  I’m sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very bad for me to feel overcome.  Your poor dear grandmother.  Jane, dear, why did you ask me to tell you all this?  I must go away and compose myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in.  I don’t know what I should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather than cause either of them a moment’s remorse. (She is up now) There!

JANE.  Shall I come with you?

MRS. KNOWLE.  No, dear, not just now.  Let me be by myself for a little.  (She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh!  Perhaps later on, when the men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your Uncle Henry—­if the opportunity occurs. . . .  But only if it occurs, of course.

    [She goes.

JANE (coming back to the sofa).  Poor Aunt Mary!  It always seems so queer that one’s mother and aunts and people should have had their romances too.

MELISANDE.  Do you call that romance, Jane?  Tennis and subscription dances and wearing tight shoes?

JANE (awkwardly).  Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you know what I mean.

MELISANDE.  Just think of the commonplace little story which mother has just told us, and compare it with any of the love-stories of history.  Isn’t it pitiful, Jane, that people should be satisfied now with so little?

JANE.  Yes, darling, very, very sad, but I don’t think Aunt Mary—­

MELISANDE.  I am not blaming Mother.  It is the same almost everywhere nowadays.  There is no romance left.

JANE.  No, darling.  Of course, I am not romantic like you, but I do agree with you.  It is very sad.  Somehow there is no—­(she searches for the right word)—­no romance left.

MELISANDE.  Just think of the average marriage.  It makes one shudder.