"Tired?" queried the girl listlessly; "no, not particularly.
Besides, I am always glad to see you, it happens so seldom."
"Yes; except in a crowd. One has never any time. Have you heard, by the way, that my husband is one of the new Associates?"
She went on quickly, preventing Mary's murmured congratulations:
"Yes, they have elected him. I suppose it is a very good thing. He has his hands full of portraits now."
Then she remarked inconsequently—the rapidity with which she passed from topic to topic half surprised Mary, who did not remember the trait of old:
"We are going to the theatre to-night—that is to say, if my husband has been able to get seats. It's the first night of a new comedy. I meant to ask you to come with us, only it was an uncertainty. If the box is not forthcoming, you must come when we do go. Only, of course, it will not be the première."
"I should like to," said Mary vaguely. "I don't care so much about first nights. I like the theatre; but I go so seldom. Aunt Marcelle does not care for English plays; she says they are like stale bread-and-butter. I tell her that is not so bad."
"The mot, you mean?"
"Partly; but also the thing. Bread-and-butter is a change after a great many petits fours."
Mrs. Lightmark smiled a little absently as she sat smoothing the creases out of her pretty, fawn-coloured gloves.