CHAPTER VI
"Lauraine is very much changed," laments Mrs. Douglas to a select coterie of friends, on one of those chilly spring afternoons when they have dropped in to sip souchong and talk scandal in her pretty drawing-room. It is her "day." There are heaps of women scattered about—there are a few men. The lights are subdued. There is a pleasant fragrance of tea, and the scents of flowers fill the air, and the babble of many voices sounds cheerfully amidst it all.
"Changed!" says one of the friends to whom she has addressed that remark; "in what way?"
"So quiet and cold and—odd," Mrs. Douglas answers; "says she hates society, detests going out, takes up artists and singers, and all sorts of queer people. I really expect to see her going about soon in a terra-cotta gown, and wearing no corsets, and looking as great a fool as Lady Etwynde. So absurd, you know, for a young woman, and a pretty woman. Of course, Lady Etwynde is a duke's daughter, and can do what she likes; besides, she's so lovely nothing could make her a fright, though she only turns it to account by being the most eccentric woman in London. I don't blame her. If you can't be remarkable in one way, it's just as well to be it in another. But the people one meets there—it really is too awful. Just the sort of creatures that Punch takes off. And Lauraine is always there; so tiresome, because Lady Etwynde's day is the same as mine, and so she can never come here."
"I thought it was odd never meeting her at your house," remarks one of the coterie.
"Yes, that's how it is you never see her," resumes Mrs. Douglas, somewhat hurriedly. "She and Lady Etwynde are inseparable, though I'm sure I can't imagine why."
"I met her—your daughter, I mean—at the Salomans' the other night," remarks a tall, fair woman, leaning languidly back in her chair.
"Yes, I know she was there," says Mrs. Douglas, colouring slightly. "Charming woman, Lady Jean!"
"Very," answers her friend dryly. "I—I suppose Lady Vavasour never heard anything about—that."