She was a fool not to have closed with me then and there; for what has happened since has altered everything—­what was to happen a little later was so much more than I could swallow.  This was the disappearance of the famous Holbein from one day to the other—­producing a consternation among us all as great as if the Venus of Milo had suddenly vanished from the Louvre.  “She has simply shipped her straight back”—­the explanation was given in that form by Mrs. Munden, who added that any cord pulled tight enough would end at last by snapping.  At the snap, in any case, we mightily jumped, for the masterpiece we had for three or four months been living with had made us feel its presence as a luminous lesson and a daily need.  We recognised more than ever that it had been, for high finish, the gem of our collection—­we found what a blank it left on the wall.  Lady Beldonald might fill up the blank, but we couldn’t.  That she did soon fill it up—­and, heaven help us, how was put before me after an interval of no great length, but during which I hadn’t seen her.  I dined on the Christmas of last year at Mrs. Munden’s, and Nina, with a “scratch lot,” as our hostess said, was there, so that, the preliminary wait being longish, she could approach me very sweetly.  “I’ll come to you tomorrow if you like,” she said; and the effect of it, after a first stare at her, was to make me look all round.  I took in, by these two motions, two things; one of which was that, though now again so satisfied herself of her high state, she could give me nothing comparable to what I should have got had she taken me up at the moment of my meeting her on her distinguished concession; the other that she was “suited” afresh and that Mrs. Brash’s successor was fully installed.  Mrs. Brash’s successor, was at the other side of the room, and I became conscious that Mrs. Munden was waiting to see my eyes seek her.  I guessed the meaning of the wait; what was one, this time, to say?  Oh first and foremost assuredly that it was immensely droll, for this time at least there was no mistake.  The lady I looked upon, and as to whom my friend, again quite at sea, appealed to me for a formula, was as little a Holbein, or a specimen of any other school, as she was, like Lady Beldonald herself, a Titian.  The formula was easy to give, for the amusement was that her prettiness—­yes, literally, prodigiously, her prettiness—­was distinct.  Lady Beldonald had been magnificent—­had been almost intelligent.  Miss What’s-her-name continues pretty, continues even young, and doesn’t matter a straw!  She matters so ideally little that Lady Beldonald is practically safer, I judge, than she has ever been.  There hasn’t been a symptom of chatter about this person, and I believe her protectress is much surprised that we’re not more struck.