"She plays at Lady Bountiful," said Mrs. Alcot. "She doesn't do it well, but—"
"—The wonder is, in Johnsonian phrase, that she should do it at all. Anything else?"
"I understand—she is writing a book—a novel."
Darrell threw back his head and laughed long and silently.
"Il ne manquait que cela," he said—"that Lady Kitty should take to literature!"
Mrs. Alcot looked at him rather sharply.
"Why not? We frivolous people are a good deal cleverer than you think."
The languid arrogance of the lady's manner was not at all unbecoming. Darrell made an inclination.
"No need to remind me, madam!" A recent exhibition at an artistic club of Mrs. Alcot's sketches had made a considerable mark. "Very soon you will leave us poor professionals no room to live."
The slight disrespect of his smile annoyed his companion, but the day was hot and she had no repartee ready. She only murmured as she threw away her cigarette: