Mrs.Willoughby quoted an unsuccessful essay concerning the novels women favoured.

'A woman with a slice of intellect likes that sort of garbage for the same reason that a girl with a neat pair of ankles likes a little mud in the streets.' Clarice was provoked to a reluctant smile by a mental picture of a violent rubicund face roaring the words.

She was induced to play with a fragment of sole; she ended by eating the wing of a chicken.
'Now,' said Mrs.Willoughby when she had set Clarice upon a sofa in front of a cosy fire in her boudoir, 'tell me what all the trouble's about.' She drew up a low chair and sat down with a hand upon the girl's arm.
'It's about Sid--I mean Mr.Mallinson,' she began.

'He called yesterday afternoon after you had left.

Papa had gone out for a walk, and aunt was lying down with a sick headache.