“Oh a ‘total absence,’” I said, “is a large order!  We live in a worrying world.”

“Yes; and she feels exactly that—­more than you’d think.  It’s in fact just why she mustn’t have, as she has now, a particular distress on at the very moment.  She wants of course to look her best, and such things tell on her appearance.”

I shook my head.  “Nothing tells on her appearance.  Nothing reaches it in any way; nothing gets at it.  However, I can understand her anxiety.  But what’s her particular distress?”

“Why the illness of Miss Dadd.”

“And who in the world’s Miss Dadd?”

“Her most intimate friend and constant companion—­the lady who was with us here that first day.”

“Oh the little round black woman who gurgled with admiration?”

“None other.  But she was taken ill last week, and it may very well be that she’ll gurgle no more.  She was very bad yesterday and is no better to-day, and Nina’s much upset.  If anything happens to Miss Dadd she’ll have to get another, and, though she has had two or three before, that won’t be so easy.”

“Two or three Miss Dadds? is it possible?  And still wanting another!” I recalled the poor lady completely now.  “No; I shouldn’t indeed think it would be easy to get another.  But why is a succession of them necessary to Lady Beldonald’s existence?”

“Can’t you guess?” Mrs. Munden looked deep, yet impatient.  “They help.”

“Help what?  Help whom?”

“Why every one.  You and me for instance.  To do what?  Why to think Nina beautiful.  She has them for that purpose; they serve as foils, as accents serve on syllables, as terms of comparison.  They make her ’stand out.’  It’s an effect of contrast that must be familiar to you artists; it’s what a woman does when she puts a band of black velvet under a pearl ornament that may, require, as she thinks, a little showing off.”

I wondered.  “Do you mean she always has them black?”

“Dear no; I’ve seen them blue, green, yellow.  They may be what they like, so long as they’re always one other thing.”

“Hideous?”

Mrs. Munden made a mouth for it.  “Hideous is too much to say; she doesn’t really require them as bad as that.  But consistently, cheerfully, loyally plain.  It’s really a most happy relation.  She loves them for it.”

“And for what do they love her?”

“Why just for the amiability that they produce in her.  Then also for their ‘home.’  It’s a career for them.”

“I see.  But if that’s the case,” I asked, “why are they so difficult to find?”

“Oh they must be safe; it’s all in that:  her being able to depend on them to keep to the terms of the bargain and never have moments of rising—­as even the ugliest woman will now and then (say when she’s in love)—­superior to themselves.”

I turned it over.  “Then if they can’t inspire passions the poor things mayn’t even at least feel them?”