Old Sir Thomas is marching round, paying senile compliments to all the prettiest girls; his son Gillam, with a diamond stud that you could see a mile off, is beaming on Mrs. Bethune, who is openly encouraging him.  Indeed, “The Everlasting,” as he is called by his friends (it is always one’s friends who give one a bad name), is careering round and about Mrs. Bethune with a vigour hardly to be expected of him.  He is looking even younger than usual.  Though fully forty-five, he still looks only thirty—­the reason of his nickname!  Everyone is a little surprised at Mrs. Bethune’s civility to him, she having been studiously cold to all men save her cousin Sir Maurice during the past year; but Mrs. Bethune herself is quite aware of what she is doing.  Of late—­it seems difficult of belief—­but of late she has fancied Maurice has avoided her.  He was always a little highflown with regard to morals, dear Maurice, but she will reform him!  A touch, just a touch of jealousy will put an end to the moral question!

She has thrown aside the dark colours she usually affects, and is to-night all in white.  So is Tita.  So is Mrs. Chichester, for the matter of that.  The latter is all smiles, and is now surrounded by a little court of admirers at the top of the room, Captain Marryatt, fatuous as ever, by her side, and the others encircling her.

“Quite refreshing to see so many men all together,” says she in a loud voice, addressing everybody at once.  She likes an audience.  “As a rule, when one gets into the country, one sticks a glass in one’s eye, and ask, ‘Where’s the MAN?’”

“I never heard anything so unkind in my life,” says Mr. Gower, with a deep reproach.  “I’m sure ever since you have been in the country you have had a regiment round you, waiting on your lightest word.”

“Oh! you git!” says Mrs. Chichester, who is as vulgar as she is well-born.  Her glance roams down the room.  “Just look at Mrs. Bethune and ‘The Everlasting,’” says she. "Aren’t they going it?  And for once the fair Bethune is well-gowned.”

“Yet I hear she is very hard up at present,” says a woman near her.  “What eyes she has!”

“I was told she made her own gowns,” says another, laughing.

“Pouf!” says Mrs. Chichester.  “That’s going a trifle too far.  One may make the garment that covers one—­I’m sure I don’t know, but I’ve heard it—­but no one ever made a gown except a regular clothes woman—­a modiste.”

“And, for the matter of that, hers is beautiful.  Do you see how the catch at the side of the dress is?  It shows the bit of satin lining admirably.”

“Well, but how did she get such a charming gown if she is as you say—­well, ’hard up’?”

“Ah!  To go into a thing like that!  How rude!" says Mrs. Chichester, going off into a little convulsion of laughter behind her fan.

“Talking of clothes,” says Captain Marryatt at the moment, “did you ever see anything like Gillam’s get up?”