"What a proud carriage she has for a woman of her age," said Dora.

"One would think she was carrying the Holy Grail--two Holy Grails in a Parsifal procession."

"Upon my word, I do believe," said Dora, "that women nowadays trust to providence to keep their dresses on their backs! But what lovely frocks!

I do not understand how there can still be people who say that the English woman does not know how to dress."

"Not now. A few years back one might have said with truth that the German woman was covered, the English woman was clothed!"

"Not always," said Dora, laughing.

"The American was arrayed, but the French woman alone was dressed. In the present day, the English woman of good society dresses as tastefully as her French sisters, and this fact would be known in France, if English women had not that bad habit of putting all their oldest garments into requisition when they travel."

"French women have not much to teach us now."

"One or two things still. A little Parisian dressmaker, who would come over and set up in England to teach English women to hold their dresses up in the street, ought to make a fortune in no time. It is the most graceful, artistic, and typical movement of the French woman."

"On the other hand, my dear Gerald," said Dora, "French women mince or trot or proceed, English women walk. We are their superiors in many things."

"We might make comparisons without end, and finally be sorely puzzled where to award the prize."

Here the servant announced "Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith."

"Smythe--not Smith," said the new arrival, indignantly turning to the domestic.

"That is the mother of Lady Gampton," whispered Lorimer to Dora.

Dora rose and went to shake hands with her.

"I am a little late," she said; "I have been to the Queen's Theatre to see _Majella_. It is a play that will draw crowded houses till the end of next season. You have seen it, of course."

"Yes," said Dora, "I was at the first night--allow me to introduce its author--Mr. Gerald Lorimer."

"What a pleasure to meet you!" said she, as Lorimer came forward and bowed. "I congratulate you sincerely; your play is a _chef-d'oeuvre_.

The house was packed to-night, and the enthusiasm boundless."

"I am happy the public appreciate the play," said Lorimer, bowing his acknowledgments of her compliments.

"_Majella_ will place our old friend in the front rank of the dramatic authors of the day."

"And fill his coffers to the brim," said the American lady, with a knowing glance, which meant, "that is the main thing."

Lorimer and Dora exchanged comprehensive looks. The lady's wink had explained in one flash the motto of New York. Not _who are you?_ nor _what are you?_ nor yet _what have you done?_ but _how much do you make?_

Loud and evidently sincere applause was heard coming from the smaller drawing-room where the concert was being given. Presently there appeared, making towards the staircase, a tall fair young man who replied by smiles and repeated bows to the bravos which were accorded to him by this _blase_ audience of people, little accustomed to lavish applause on anyone. It was Schowalski, a well-known pianist who came to London every year to give a concert, and play in drawing-rooms during the season. At a certain distance, Schowalski's head recalled that of his celebrated compatriot and confrere Paderewski; however, he had not the delicate, finely chiselled profile which gives the latter his striking and unforgetable physiognomy. Taller, more vigorous, more solidly and ma.s.sively built, with long light hair, straight and thick, and his enormous moustache falling in a semicircle around the mouth, he might have sat for Brennus or Vercingetorix.

Dora held out her hand as he was about to go downstairs.

"Thanks a thousand times," said she; "you have played like an angel."

And she introduced him to the American lady still at her side.

"I had the honour of making madame's acquaintance in New York," said Schowalski, bowing.

"Really," replied Mrs. W. G. van der Leyd Smythe, "when was that?"

"Why, two years ago in New York, in your drawing-room, where I had the honour of playing."

"That's true--I think I remember--in January 1896; yes, yes--delighted to meet you again, Mr. ... I never can remember names--what is his name again?" asked she of Dora.

Schowalski heard no more. He bowed, shook hands with a few friends and disappeared.

"Schowalski is one of the greatest pianists of the day," said Dora.

"I know, I know," said the lady with the string of names, "but what impertinence to enter into conversation with your guests, as if he had been invited. Upon my word, the effrontery of these musicians!"

She followed him with her eyes as she stared through a pair of long-handled gla.s.ses, that are a weapon of offence in the fingers of some women.

"Well, to be sure," she cried, "if he isn't shaking hands with Lady Gampton now! My dear Mrs. Grantham, in New York we do not entertain musicians, we engage them to entertain us--we pay them and we are quits."

"My dear Mrs. Van der Leyd Smith"--

"Smythe," said the lady, correcting Dora.

"Excuse me, I never can remember names. In England, artists like Schowalski are received by the aristocracy and even at Court. Perhaps that makes them so bold as to think they may be fit to a.s.sociate with the aristocracy of New York."

"Take that," she said to herself.

The magnificent New Yorker fanned herself, smiled a little awry, and went to join the group which held her daughter, the Countess of Gampton.

Lorimer had not lost a word of the conversation. He would fain have cried "Bravo."

"For a _debutante_," said he, "you are going strong--that was promising."

"My dear Gerald, I feel that I am getting spiteful--I shall bite soon."

Just at this moment, quite near the door, she perceived a lady taking notes. She had already noticed her before--this person who drew up every now and then near certain groups, carefully studied the dresses, and looked up and down the people whom she did not seem to know.

"Do tell me," Dora said to Lorimer, "who is that woman who puzzles me so? What is she doing? She seems to be taking notes; just now she was making little sketches--she is an artist, no doubt."

"How innocent you are!" cried Lorimer, laughing loudly. "Yes, she is an artist, if you will--who works for some fashion paper--or a lady reporter taking notes for a society paper."

"But I do not know her," said Dora; "I am perfectly sure I never asked her here."

"You, no; but perhaps someone else. For that matter reporters find their way pretty nearly everywhere without invitation. It is their calling. This one is taking notes, to publish in her paper an account of your party."

"But it is an insult," cried Dora; "I wish they would leave me alone. I don't want accounts in papers--my house is private."

"Wait a moment--why, yes," exclaimed Lorimer, who had just put up his eyegla.s.s to look at the lady in question; "yes, of course, I know her, she writes for _The Social Wave_, a paper for people in the swim. Shall I introduce her to you?"