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“What you mean is then that it’s simply impossible?”

“Oh no,” said Mamie with a qualified emphasis. “It’s POSSIBLE.”

“But disgustingly difficult?”

“As difficult as you like.”

“Then what can I do that I haven’t done?”

“You can only wait a little longer.”

“But that’s just what I HAVE done. I’ve done nothing else. I’m always waiting a little longer!”

Miss Cutter retained, in spite of this pathos, her grasp of the subject. “THE thing, as I’ve told you, is for you first to be seen.”

“But if people won’t look at me?”

“They will.”

“They WILL?” Mrs. Medwin was eager.

“They shall,” her hostess went on. “It’s their only having heard– without having seen.”‘

“But if they stare straight the other way?” Mrs. Medwin continued to object. “You can’t simply go up to them and twist their heads about.”

“It’s just what I can,” said Mamie Cutter.

But her charming visitor, heedless for the moment of this attenuation, had found the way to put it. “It’s the old story. You can’t go into the water till you swim, and you can’t swim till you go into the water. I can’t be spoken to till I’m seen, but I can’t be seen till I’m spoken to.”

She met this lucidity, Miss Cutter, with but an instant’s lapse. “You say I can’t twist their heads about. But I HAVE twisted them.”

It had been quietly produced, but it gave her companion a jerk. “They say ‘Yes’?”

She summed it up. “All but one. SHE says ‘No.'”

Mrs. Medwin thought; then jumped. “Lady Wantridge?”

Miss Cutter, as more delicate, only bowed admission. “I shall see her either this afternoon or late to-morrow. But she has written.”

Her visitor wondered again. “May I see her letter?”

“No.” She spoke with decision. “But I shall square her.”

“Then how?”

“Well”–and Miss Cutter, as if looking upward for inspiration, fixed her eyes a while on the ceiling–“well, it will come to me.”

Mrs. Medwin watched her–it was impressive. “And will they come to you–the others?” This question drew out the fact that they would- -so far at least as they consisted of Lady Edward, Lady Bellhouse and Mrs. Pouncer, who had engaged to muster, at the signal of tea, on the 14th–prepared, as it were, for the worst. There was of course always the chance that Lady Wantridge might take the field, in such force as to paralyse them, though that danger, at the same time, seemed inconsistent with her being squared. It didn’t perhaps all quite ideally hang together; but what it sufficiently came to was that if she was the one who could do most FOR a person in Mrs. Medwin’s position she was also the one who could do most against. It would therefore be distinctly what our friend familiarly spoke of as “collar-work.” The effect of these mixed considerations was at any rate that Mamie eventually acquiesced in the idea, handsomely thrown out by her client, that she should have an “advance” to go on with. Miss Cutter confessed that it seemed at times as if one scarce COULD go on; but the advance was, in spite of this delicacy, still more delicately made–made in the form of a banknote, several sovereigns, some loose silver, and two coppers, the whole contents of her purse, neatly disposed by Mrs. Medwin on one of the tiny tables. It seemed to clear the air for deeper intimacies, the fruit of which was that Mamie, lonely after all in her crowd and always more helpful than helped, eventually brought out that the way Scott had been going on was what seemed momentarily to overshadow her own power to do so.

“I’ve had a descent from him.” But she had to explain. “My half- brother–Scott Homer. A wretch.”

“What kind of a wretch?”

“Every kind. I lose sight of him at times–he disappears abroad. But he always turns up again, worse than ever.”

“Violent?”

“No.”

“Maudlin?”

“No.”

“Only unpleasant?”

“No. Rathe
r pleasant. Awfully clever–awfully travelled and easy.”

“Then what’s the matter with him?”

Mamie mused, hesitated–seemed to see a wide past. “I don’t know.”

“Something in the background?” Then as her friend was silent, “Something queer about cards?” Mrs. Medwin threw off.