The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. An Englishwoman. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. “Bother it all!” she swore. The vote is only the beginning, the necessary beginning.
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