“It’s nicest,” she said, “to be happy and clean.  And it’s not bad to be happy and dirty; or very bad to be unhappy and clean; but ...”  She shut her lips with a funny distaste on the remaining alternative.  “And I’m horribly afraid Felicity’s going to get engaged to Mr. Malyon, that young one talking to her, do you see?  He helps with conspiracies in Poland.”

“But he’s quite clean,” said Urquhart, looking at him.

Lucy admitted that.  “But he’ll get sent to Siberia soon, don’t you see, and Felicity will go too, I know.”

Peter said, “If I was Felicity I’d marry Leslie; I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.  I wish it was me he loved so.  Fancy marrying into all those lovely things I’m getting for him.  Only I hope she won’t, because then she’d take over the shopping department, and I should be left unemployed.  Oh, Lucy, he’s let me buy him the heavenliest pair of Chelsea jardinieres, shaped like orange-tubs, with Cupids painted on blue panels.  You must come and see them soon.”

Lucy’s eyes, seeing the delightful things, widened and danced.  She loved the things Peter bought.

Suddenly Peter, who had a conscience somewhere, felt a pang in it, and, to ease it, regretfully left the corner and wandered about among his uncle’s friends, being pleasant and telling them the time.  He did that till the last of them had departed.  Urquhart then had to depart also, and Peter was alone with his relatives.  It was only after Urquhart had gone that Peter realised fully what a very curious and incongruous element he had been in the room.  Realising it suddenly, he laughed, and Lucy laughed too.  Felicity looked at them indulgently.

“Babies.  What’s the matter now?”

“Only Denis,” explained Peter.

“That young man,” commented Dermot Hope, without approbation, “is remarkably well-fed, well-bred, and well-dressed.  Why do you take him about with you?”

“That’s just why, isn’t it, Peter,” put in Lucy.  “Peter and I like people to be well-fed and well-bred and well-dressed.”

Felicity touched her chin, with her indulgent smile.

“Baby again.  You like no such thing.  You’d get tired of it in a week.”

“Oh, well,” said Lucy, “a week’s a long time.”

“He’s got no fire in all his soul and body,” complained Dermot Hope.  “He’s a symbol of prosperous content—­of all we’re fighting.  It’s people like him who are the real obstructionists; the people who don’t see, not because they’re blind, but because they’re too pleased with their own conditions to look beyond them.  It’s people like him who are pouring water on the fires as they are lit, because fires are such bad form, and might burn up their precious chattels if allowed to get out of hand.  Take life placidly; don’t get excited, it’s so vulgar; that’s their religion.  They’ve neither enthusiasm nor imagination in them.  And so ...”