"If you mean do I know her one day and cut her the next, do I go to her balls and be blind when we pass in the Row, I must say—no. She comes to my house, I go to hers. She was extremely kind to me in Rome, and I never forget kindness. She is not very ladylike, I acknowledge, but I should be sorry to hurt her feelings because of that. I do not consider a lady can ever affect her own dignity by her behaviour to those whom society counts her inferiors. For my part I like to be consistent. If we receive such people on account of their wealth, we take them at their own valuation. We have no right to smile on them one minute and insult them the next."
"You were always peculiar," says Lady Jean, with some asperity. "I suppose that comes of high principles and poetic fancies. I always go where I can be amused myself. It is the best thing to do after all."
"To amuse oneself?" questions Lauraine. "And afterwards?"
"Oh, after that—the deluge," laughs Lady Jean, shaking out the countless lace ruffles and frills of her cambric morning gown. "I could not take life au grand sérieux; it would kill me. Oh, I know what you would say. Excitement is frivolous, useless, wearing to our nerves, destruction to health and beauty. Perhaps so. But you are blessed with a serene temperament; I am not. I like to live, to enjoy, to be in one whirl from morning till night. I don't care about long life, peace, tranquillity. No, I want all I can, while I can."
Lauraine looks at her curiously. She knows very little of Lady Jean—only just so much as one woman in society does know of another who moves in the same set, dances at the same balls, pursues the same routine of enjoyments. But she knows she is popular and admired, on good terms with the world at large, and an immense favourite with men.
"You don't agree with me, of course?" pursues Lady Jean, sipping her claret, and looking amusedly at Lauraine's grave face. "I suppose you have aims and ambitions and 'views' like your friend Lady Etwynde? What a curious thing, by the way, that she should be a friend of yours, or indeed, of anybody's except a peacock. She must be dreadfully uninteresting!"
"I think her charming," answers Lauraine. "She is one of the few true women it has been my lot to meet."
Lady Jean feels a little uncomfortable. She has long passed the stage of blushing, or she would feel the colour mounting as she meets Lauraine's calm, frank gaze.
"Is there any arrière pensée?" she thinks. "Is she less blind than we imagine?"
"I can't imagine a woman getting enthusiastic about a woman," she says coolly. "Seems unnatural. Of course, I have no doubt the æsthetic is very charming to those who can appreciate her. I never could."