'Nor do you. I was forgetting. Still, it's quite a jolly place.'

'It's a horrible place. I loathe it. I've half a mind not to go.'

'Oh, I don't know.'

'What do you mean?'

Lord Dawlish was feeling a little sorry for himself. Whatever he
said seemed to be the wrong thing. This evidently was one of the
days on which Claire was not so sweet-tempered as on some other
days. It crossed his mind that of late these irritable moods of
hers had grown more frequent. It was not her fault, poor girl! he
told himself. She had rather a rotten time.

It was always Lord Dawlish's habit on these occasions to make this
excuse for Claire. It was such a satisfactory excuse. It covered
everything. But, as a matter of fact, the rather rotten time which
she was having was not such a very rotten one. Reducing it to its
simplest terms, and forgetting for the moment that she was an
extraordinarily beautiful girl--which his lordship found it
impossible to do--all that it amounted to was that, her mother
having but a small income, and existence in the West Kensington
flat being consequently a trifle dull for one with a taste for the
luxuries of life, Claire had gone on the stage. By birth she
belonged to a class of which the female members are seldom called
upon to earn money at all, and that was one count of her grievance
against Fate. Another was that she had not done as well on the
stage as she had expected to do. When she became engaged to Bill
she had reached a point where she could obtain without difficulty