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2 as a medium for the conveyance of sandwiches. They had been to the theatre together, but Mrs. Eddis, mistress of the house and their chaperone, had gone to bed, on their return, while Maud Eddis and her friend had lingered to talk "things" over and in especial to watch the arrivals next door. Black and blond, they were kneeling in the window-seat looking out on to the stream of carriages and the shadows of the plane-trees. At length, about half-past eleven, there was a slackening in the arrivals, for the season was still young, and guests went to dances comparatively early, and they withdrew their attention from outside affairs and devoted themselves with more zeal to sandwiches and conversation.

Lucia Grimson began by giving a great sigh.

"Oh dear, oh dear, Maud, how happy you ought to be!" she said. "Everything is spread out for you like lunch at a picnic, when you can simply descend and grab what you like. And you are a darling: you have given me such nice grabs all this last week. And now my picnic is over. At least it will be to-morrow."

Maud, with precision, finished her sandwich and swallowed it all before she spoke. Lucia, it may be remarked, spoke with her mouth full.

"But do stay another week," she said. "Mother would be delighted, and I well, I could put up with you. There's a dance to-morrow, you know, and it's mother's opera night on Wednesday, and" Lucia waved her hands violently.

"Oh, stop, stop," she said. "I shall get perfectly green with envy if you go on, and it would not be becoming. I've got to go to-morrow; when you come down and stay with us in August you will quite understand why. You can't at present: you have never lived in a country town with two aunts who were daughters of a defunct Dean. You can't understand the rules, you lucky person. If one has settled to go home on Wednesday, on Wednesday home you go, and nothing short of an earthquake may stop you. And the earthquake would have to be a bad one. Oh, Maud, we are alone, aren't we? If so 'Damn,' but not otherwise."

Lucia got up, and took the last sandwich.

"One used always to be told to leave the last for Mr. Manners," she observed, "but I think the parlour-maid usually ate it: here Don Whiskers would. So why shouldn't I? How good! And how good the play was! And people yawned, and people went out before the end! What idiots! Weren't they?"