“Yes, very nice!” she said—­“Very nice indeed!  But you know, Maryllia, if you would only get one of those wonderful box things one sees advertised so much in the papers, the pianista or mutuscope or gramophone—­no, I think it’s pianola, but I’m not quite sure—­you would save such a lot of study and brain-work for this poor child!  And it sounds quite as well!  I’m sure she could manage a gramophone thing—­I mean pianista—­pianola—­quite nicely for you when you want any music.  Couldn’t you, my dear?”

And she gazed at Cicely with a bland kindliness as she put the question.  Cicely’s eyes sparkled with fun and satire.

“I’m sure I could!” she declared, with the utmost seriousness—­“It would be delightful!  Just like organ-grinding, only much more so!  I should enjoy it of all things!  Of course one ought never to use the brain in music!”

“Not nowadays,”—­said Mrs. Courtenay, with conviction—­“Things have improved so much.  Mechanism does everything so well.  And it is such a pity to use up one’s vital energy in doing what one of those box-things can do better.  And do you too play music?”

And she addressed herself to Adderley who happened to be standing near her.  He made one of his fantastic salutes.

“Not I, madam!  I am merely a writer,—­one who makes rhymes and verses—–­”

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay waved him away with a hand on which at least five diamond rings sparkled gorgeously.

“Oh dear!  Don’t come near me!” she said, with a little affected laugh—­“I simply hate poetry!  I’m so sorry you write it!  I can’t think why you do.  Do you like it?—­or are you doing it for somebody because you must?”

Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking it up rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay’s abhorrence.

“I like it more than anything else in the world!” he said.  “I’m doing it quite for myself, and for nobody else.”

“Really!”—­and Mrs. Courtenay gave him a glance of displeased surprise—­“How dreadful!” Here she turned to Maryllia.  “Au revoir, my dear, for the present!  As you won’t allow any Bridge, I’m going to sleep.  Then I shall do massage for an hour.  May I have tea in my own room?”

“Certainly!” said Maryllia.

“Thanks!” She glided out, with a frou-frou of her silken skirts and a trail of perfume floating after her.

The three she left behind her exchanged amused glances.

“Wonderful woman!” said Adderley,—­“And, no doubt, a perfectly happy one!”

“Why of course!  I don’t suppose she has ever shed a tear, lest it should make a wrinkle!” And Cicely, as she made these remarks, patted her own thin, sallow cheeks consolingly.  “Look at my poor face and hers!  Mine is all lined and puckered with tears and sad thoughts—­she hasn’t a wrinkle!  And I’m fourteen, and she’s forty!  Oh dear!  Why did I cry so much over all the sorrow and beauty of life when I was young!”