"Frightfully! I met Miss Lascelles just now, and she informed me, in her bell-like voice, that if we were quite civilised we should go about without any clothes at all just now. I told her I hoped the relics of barbarism would last out my time."
"Then I presume Miss Lascelles will not throw her pearls before swine again. Are you going to hospital?"
"Not to-day. Hospital is unbearable in this weather. The air is thick with microbes."
Mona looked at her friend reflectively. "Suppose you come down to Richmond with me," she said, "and blow away a few of the microbes on the river?"
"Oh, Mona, how lovely! But can you spare the time?"
"Yes, I began early to-day. But we will have some lunch first. In the meantime I will sing you my last song, and you shall criticise."
"Are you still going on with your singing lessons? I can't think how you find time for it."
"I think it saves time in the end. It is a grand safety-valve; and besides—a woman is robbed of half her armour if she cannot use her voice."
Her hands ran lightly up and down the keys of the piano, and she began to sing Schubert's Ave Maria.
"Miss Dalrymple says that is my chef-d'[oe]uvre," she said, when she had finished. "What think you?"