'Mrs. Freddy crestfallen, what about?' said Farnborough. But he was much preoccupied at that moment in supplying Lady Sophia with bits of toast the exact size for balancing on the Bedlington's nose. For the benefit of his end of the table Paul Filey had begun to describe the new one-man show of caricatures of famous people just opened in Bond Street. The 'mordant genius,' as he called it, of this new man—an American Jew—offered an irresistible opportunity for phrase-making. And still on the other side of the tea urn the Ullands were discussing with Borrodaile and Miss Levering the absent lady whose 'case' was obviously a matter of concern to her friends.
'Well, let us hope,' Lord John was saying as sternly as his urbanity permitted—'let us hope this exhibition in the House will be a lesson to her.'
'She wasn't concerned in it!' Vida quickly defended her.
'Nevertheless we are all hoping,' said Lady John, 'that it has come just in time to prevent her from going over the edge.'
'Over the edge!' Farnborough pricked up his ears at last in good earnest, feeling that the conversation on the other side had grown too interesting for him to be out of it any longer. 'Over what edge?'
'The edge of the Woman Suffrage precipice,' said Lady John.
'You call it a precipice?' Vida Levering raised her dark brows in a little smile.
'Don't you?' demanded her hostess.
'I should say mud-puddle.'