“She will not speak that word,” Mr. Sabin said.  Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.  The subtlety of her smile faded away.  Her whole face expressed a contemptuous and self-assured cynicism.

“You know her very well,” she murmured.  “Yet she and I are no strangers.  She is one who loves to taste—­no, to drink—­deeply of all the experiences of life.  Why should we blame her, you and I?  Have we not the same desire?”

Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette.

“Once, perhaps,” he remarked.  “You must not forget that I am no longer a young man.”

She leaned towards him.

“You will die young,” she murmured.  “You are not of the breed of men who grow old.”

“Do you mean to turn my head?” he asked her, with a humorous smile.

“It would be easier,” she answered, “than to touch your heart.”

Then Lucille looked across at them—­and Mr. Sabin suddenly remembered that Reginald Brott knew them both only as strangers.

“Muriel,” she said, “you are behaving disgracefully.”

“I am doing my best,” Lady Carey answered, “to keep you in countenance.”

The eyes of the two women met for a moment, and though the smiles lingered still upon their faces Lady Carey at any rate was not able to wholly conceal her hatred.  Lucille shrugged her shoulders.

“I am doing my best,” she said, “to convert Mr. Brott.”

“To what?” Lady Carey asked.

“To a sane point of view concerning the holiness of the aristocracy,” Lucille answered.  “I am afraid though that I have made very little impression.  In his heart I believe Mr. Brott would like to see us all working for our living, school-teachers and dressmakers, and that sort of thing, you know.”

Mr. Brott protested.

“I am not even,” he declared, “moderately advanced in my views as regards matters of your sex.  To tell you the truth, I do not like women to work at all outside their homes.”

Lady Carey laughed.

“My dear,” she said to Lucille, “you and I may as well retire in despair.  Can’t you see the sort of woman Mr. Brott admires?  She isn’t like us a bit.  She is probably a healthy, ruddy-cheeked young person who lives in the country, gets up to breakfast to pour out the coffee for some sort of a male relative, goes round the garden snipping off roses in big gloves and a huge basket, interviews the cook, orders the dinner, makes fancy waistcoats for her husband, and failing a sewing maid, does the mending for the family.  You and I, Lucille, are not like that.”

“Well, you have mentioned nothing which I couldn’t do, if it seemed worth while,” Lucille objected.  “It sounds very primitive and delightful.  I am sure we are all too luxurious and too lazy.  I think we ought to turn over a new leaf.”

“For you, dear Lucille,” Lady Carey said with suave and deadly satire, “what improvement is possible?  You have all that you could desire.  It is much less fortunate persons, such as myself, to whom Utopia must seem such a delightful place.”