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As Lionel ended this homily of the vapoury Mrs Archibald, a group of bystanders dispersed, and Lady Carey was visible to our two pilgrims.

“That is Lady Carey, my lord, widow of Sir Reginald, who made himself so conspicuous in India.”

“Do you mean the positive little woman who followed fashion’s dictates, though she kicked, in words, at the absurdity of some exaggerated garments?”

“Ah! but finally submitted to all the caprices of the mode, my lord—resistance would have been a crime of lese-toilette—yes, it is she, or at least what is left of her—a bundle of mannerism and puckered flesh, sole survivals of an artificial state. At times she is deep, more often frivolous, of a hasty temper and a very cold temperament; in fact, her personality is made up of full stops. Her brain seems to have been built of blind alleys, which lead to nowhere. She is suggestive and narrow-minded, gushing and worldly-wise; she never allows passion to tear her heart to shreds, but talks freely about women’s frolics, and tells naughty stories with a twinkle in her eye and a pout on her lip. What a pity such a woman had missed the coach to originality, and had alighted at the first station—superficiality!”