It is the little room behind the dining-room for which English architects have long been famous; ’Make something of this, and you will indeed be a clever one,’ they seem to say to you as they unveil it.  The Comtesse finds that John has undoubtedly made something of it.  It is his ‘study’ (mon Dieu, the words these English use!) and there is nothing in it that offends; there is so much not in it too that might so easily have been there.  It is not in the least ornate; there are no colours quarrelling with each other (unseen, unheard by the blissful occupant of the revolving chair); the Comtesse has not even the gentle satisfaction of noting a ‘suite’ in stained oak.  Nature might have taken a share in the decorations, so restful are they to the eyes; it is the working room of a man of culture, probably lately down from Oxford; at a first meeting there is nothing in it that pretends to be what it is not.  Our visitor is a little disappointed, but being fair-minded blows her absent host a kiss for disappointing her.

He has even, she observes with a twinkle, made something of the most difficult of his possessions, the little wife.  For Maggie, who is here receiving her, has been quite creditably toned down.  He has put her into a little grey frock that not only deals gently with her personal defects, but is in harmony with the room.  Evidently, however, she has not ‘risen’ with him, for she is as ever; the Comtesse, who remembers having liked her the better of the two, could shake her for being so stupid.  For instance, why is she not asserting herself in that other apartment?

The other apartment is really a correctly solemn dining-room, of which we have a glimpse through partly open folding-doors.  At this moment it is harbouring Mr. Shand’s ladies’ committee, who sit with pens and foolscap round the large table, awaiting the advent of their leader.  There are nobly wise ones and some foolish ones among them, for we are back in the strange days when it was considered ‘unwomanly’ for women to have minds.  The Comtesse peeps at them with curiosity, as they arrange their papers or are ushered into the dining-room through a door which we cannot see.  To her frivolous ladyship they are a species of wild fowl, and she is specially amused to find her niece among them.  She demands an explanation as soon as the communicating doors close.]

Comtesse.  Tell me since when has my dear Sybil become one of these ladies?  It is not like her.

[Maggie is obviously not clever enough to understand the woman question.  Her eye rests longingly on a half-finished stocking as she innocently but densely replies:]

Maggie.  I think it was about the time that my husband took up their cause.

[The Comtesse has been hearing tales of lady Sybil and the barbarian; and after having the grace to hesitate, she speaks with the directness for which she is famed in Mayfair.]