Lady K. (_reproachfully_). That is unfair, dear. You
_know_ I never loved anyone but you!

Carron (_aloud_). But you flirted, Tony; yes, you did. You
nearly drove me mad with jealousy. (_In petto_) Hang it all! how
can I get away and go for a walk? This is unbearable.

And so on, and so on, all the _triste canzon_. Lady Kingsmead's boudoir
was a charming room done in white and pale corn-colour. There were many
books, but Tommy had one day betrayed the limitations of their field of
usefulness by asking his mother before several people, "Mother, where do
you keep the books you _read_?"

There were many flowers, beautiful Turkey carpets, shaded lamps,
overloaded little tables whose mission in life appeared to be the
driving parlour-maids, however reluctant, to the process of dusting,
and, in the darkest corner, where its faded gilding was supposed to
lighten the gloom, a beautiful old harp. The harp belonged to Mr. Isaacs
in Baker Street, but was supposed to have been played by the fair
fingers of Lady Kingsmead's grandmother.

The furniture and hangings, all new, belonged to Messrs. Bampton in
Piccadilly, as did the carpets. The pictures, belonging to the entail,
were paid for. Lady Kingsmead lay on a _chaise-longue_ and played with a
Persian kitten named Omar.

Carron sat opposite her in a low chair smoking cigarettes. It was just
four o'clock.