loftily. "The Waddy will take the female Bent apart, after having borrowed—yes!—everything that she can, from hairpins to babies' bottles. Such, my dear, is life in a hotel. The Waddy will tell the female Bent facts and fictions about The Dancing Master and The Dowd."
"Lucy, I should like you better if you were not always looking into people's back-bedrooms."
"Anybody can look into their front drawing-rooms; and remember whatever I do, and wherever I look, I never talk—as the Waddy will. Let us hope that The Dancing Master's greasy smile and manner of the pedagogue will 'soften the heart of that cow' his wife. If mouths speak truth, I should think that little Mrs. Bent could get very angry on occasion."
"But what reason has she for being angry?"
"What reason? The Dancing Master in himself is a reason. Remember, 'If in his life some trivial errors fall, look in his face, and you'll believe them all.' I am prepared to credit any evil of The Dancing Master, because I hate him so. And The Dowd is so disgustingly badly dressed"
"That she, too, is capable of every iniquity? I always prefer to believe the best of everybody. It saves so much trouble."
"Very good. I prefer to believe the worst. It saves useless expenditure of sympathy. And you may be quite certain that the Waddy believes with me."
Mrs. Mallowe sighed and made no answer.
The conversation was holden after dinner while Mrs. Hauksbee was dressing for a dance.
"I am too tired to go," pleaded Mrs. Mallowe, and Mrs. Hauksbee left her in peace till two in the morning, when she was aware of emphatic knocking at her door.
"Don't be very angry, dear," said Mrs. Hauksbee. "My idiot of an ayah has gone home, and, as I hope to sleep tonight, there isn't a soul in the place to unlace me."
"Oh, this is too bad!" said Mrs. Mallowe sulkily.
"Can't help it. I'm a lone, lorn grass-widow, but I will
