"They're Art's tribute to Nature, Rita," said Camilla with an air of finality.
Mrs. Cheyne sighed.
"My mission in life is ended, Camilla. I'm quite sure of it now. You've convinced me. I'm actually envious of a woman who sits by the fire and sews baby-clothes. Your industry is a reproach—your smile a reproof and your happiness a condemnation. I know you're right. You've really solved the problem, and I haven't. I never will. I'm past that now. I'm going to grow old ungracefully, yielding the smallest fraction of an inch at a time to the inevitable. I'm going to be stout, I know it—and probably dumpy. I could weep, Camilla."
"Who's talking of weeping here?" said a voice. And General Bent, with his stick, came thumping in. "Oh—you, Rita?" he laughed. "Women never cry unless there's something to be gained by it." Rita offered him her cheek, and Camilla rang for tea. In a moment Mrs. Rumsen came in.
"I knew you were here, Rita," she said, bending her tall figure for a caress.
"How?"
"Teddy Wetherby's machine—at the corner—and Teddy."
"Is he waiting still? Such a nice boy—but absolutely oblivious of the passage of time."
"I thought you'd given up your kindergarten, Rita," put in Camilla, laughing.
"I have. But Teddy is my prize pupil. He's taking a post-graduate course." And, when they all laughed at her, she turned on them severely. "I won't have you laughing at Teddy. He's really an angel."