of Hanover Square and of Bond Street, lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics.  Dozens of young women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before Winifred and Imogen, draped in ‘creations.’  The models—­’Very new, modom; quite the latest thing—­’ which those two reluctantly turned down, would have filled a museum; the models which they were obliged to have nearly emptied James’ bank.  It was no good doing things by halves, Winifred felt, in view of the need for making this first and sole untarnished season a conspicuous success.  Their patience in trying the patience of those impersonal creatures who swam about before them could alone have been displayed by such as were moved by faith.  It was for Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess Fashion, fervent as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for Imogen an experience by no means too unpleasant—­she often looked so nice, and flattery was implicit everywhere:  in a word it was ‘amusing.’

On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having, as it were, gutted Skywards, they had sought refreshment over the way at Caramel and Baker’s, and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with cream, turned homewards through Berkeley Square of an evening touched with spring.  Opening the door—­freshly painted a light olive-green; nothing neglected that year to give Imogen a good send-off—­Winifred passed towards the silver basket to see if anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils twitched.  What was that scent?

Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the library, and stood absorbed.  Rather sharply, because of the queer feeling in her breast, Winifred said: 

“Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.”

Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs.  Winifred heard the door of her room slammed to, and drew a long savouring breath.  Was it spring tickling her senses—­whipping up nostalgia for her ‘clown,’ against all wisdom and outraged virtue?  A male scent!  A faint reek of cigars and lavender-water not smelt since that early autumn night six months ago, when she had called him ‘the limit.’  Whence came it, or was it ghost of scent—­sheer emanation from memory?  She looked round her.  Nothing—­not a thing, no tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the diningroom.  A little day-dream of a scent—­illusory, saddening, silly!  In the silver basket were new cards, two with ‘Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,’ and one with ‘Mr. Polegate Thom’ thereon; she sniffed them, but they smelled severe.  ‘I must be tired,’ she thought, ‘I’ll go and lie down.’  Upstairs the drawing-room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom.  This, too, was half-curtained and dim, for it was six o’clock.  Winifred threw off her coat—­that scent again!—­then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail.  Something dark had risen from the sofa in the far corner.  A word of horror—­in her family—­escaped her:  “God!”