"What time is it, Vera?"
"A quarter to twelve."
"Almost time to dress; I've only ten more cards to fill up. What are you going to wear—white?"
Vera shivers. "Look how the dust is flying—it must be dreadfully cold out—I should like to put on a fur jacket."
"Do," says the elder lady, energetically. "It will be original, and attract attention. Not that you could well be more stared at than you are."
Vera smiles, and does not answer.
Mrs. Hazeldine goes on with her task.
"There! that's done!" she cries, at last, getting up from the table, and piling her notes up in a heap on one side of it. "Now, I am at your orders."
She comes forward into the room—a pretty, dark-eyed, oval-faced woman, with a figure in which her dressmaker has understood how to supplement all that nature has but imperfectly carried out. A woman with restless movements and an ever-ready tongue—a thorough daughter of the London world she lives in.
Vera leans her head back in her chair, and looks at her. "Cissy," she says, "I must really go home, I have been with you a month to-day."