We men cannot expect to understand these small matters—these exigencies, as it were, of female life. But we may be permitted to note feebly en passant through existence that there are occasions when women put on their best clothes without the desire to please. And, while Millicent Chyne was actually attiring herself, Jocelyn Gordon, in another house not so far away, was busy with that beautiful hair of hers, patting here, drawing out there, pinning, poking, pressing with all the cunning that her fingers possessed.
When they met a little later in Lady Cantourne's uncompromisingly solid and old-fashioned drawing-room, one may be certain that nothing was lost.
“My aunt tells me,” began Millicent at once, with that degage treatment of certain topics hitherto held sacred which obtains among young folks to-day, “that you know Loango.”
“Oh yes—I live there.”
“And you know Mr. Meredith?”
“Yes, and Mr. Oscard also.”
There was a little pause, while two politely smiling pairs of eyes probed each other.
“She knows something—how much?” was behind one pair of eyes.
“She cannot find out—I am not afraid of her,” behind the other.
And Lady Cantourne, the proverbial looker-on, slowly rubbed her white hands one over the other.