“Quite so. You’re looking rather fearfully at my pictures. Do you like them?”

“They’re very striking,” said Elizabeth politely. “Of course I don’t really understand Futurism.”

“My dear girl, they’re not Futurist pictures!” Cynthia said, amused. “What you’re looking at is a Beardsley.”

“Oh—is it?” Elizabeth had no idea what a Beardsley was, but she did not like to confess her ignorance. She changed the subject. “I love your yellow curtains, and the black carpet.”

“So do I,” said Cynthia. “My mother says they make her feel bilious, but then she’s addicted to flowered chintzes and pink lampshades.”

Elizabeth laughed, but she knew that she too liked pink lampshades.

“Does your mo—Mrs. Ramsay—live in town,” she asked.

“Officially. She drifts from Stephen to me, and from me to my uncle, and so on. She’s rather a delightful person, not in the least like Stephen or me. One of those incurably vague women, you know, with a gift for saying the opposite to what she means.”

“How amusing!” Elizabeth said. She would have liked to make a witty remark, but as usual she could not think of one.

“Most, but trying to live with. She has a habit of getting her affairs into a muddle, and then Stephen or I have to try and unravel them. Anthony’s rather more successful than either of us. He’s a business man, so he ought to be, I suppose. Here’s tea.”

Close behind the tea came Stephen, with his monocle screwed firmly into his eye, and his hair waving in a fashion which Elizabeth admired and he thought detestable.

“Hul-lo!” Cynthia drawled.

“Don’t sound so pleased!” he answered. “How d’you do, Miss Arden? Been to any more dances since I saw you?”

“Only one,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his.

He bent to pick up the plate of hot cakes from the hearth, and offered it to her, smiling irresistibly.

“Do ask me to partner you at the next club-meeting! Or is that cheek?”

Elizabeth’s dimples came into play; she looked up at him with a hint of roguishness.

“I thought you didn’t like dancing,” she said.

“I don’t—always,” he answered. “Can I be your partner?”

“Squash him,” Cynthia advised. “Milk or lemon?”

“Milk, please. I don’t know whether I’m going to the next club-dance or not yet.”

“When will you know?” demanded Stephen. “I think you’re being rather beastly to me. How’s the heir, Cynny?”

“Rather pleased with himself,” she answered. “He pulled the coffee-pot over at breakfast, and the coffee ran all over Anthony’s new trousers. You ought to have heard him swear.”

“Oh, have you got a baby?” cried Elizabeth.

“I don’t wonder you’re surprised,” Stephen said. “She doesn’t look as though she had, does she? As a matter of fact the kid does her credit. Topping little animal.”