"Slightly."

"Well?"

"Miss Schley."

"Really?"

Lady Holme's voice sounded perfectly indifferent and just faintly surprised. There was no hint of irritation in it.

"And what are they saying about Miss Schley?" she added, sipping her tea and glancing about the crowded room.

"Oh, many things, and among the many one that's more untrue than all the rest put together."

"What's that?"

"It's too absurd. I don't think I'll tell you."

"But why not? If it's too absurd it's sure to be amusing."

"I don't think so."

His voice sounded almost angry.

"Tell me, Robin."

He looked at her quickly with a warm light in his dark eyes.

"If you only knew how I--"

"Hush! Go on about Miss Schley."

"They're saying that she's wonderfully like you, and that--have some more tea?"

"That--?"

"That you hate it."

Lady Holme smiled, as if she were very much entertained.

"But why should I hate it?"

"I don't know. But women invent reasons for everything."

"What have they invented for this?"

"Oh--well--that you like to--I can't tell you it all, really. But in substance it comes to this! They are saying, or implying--"

"Implication is the most subtle of the social arts."

"It's the meanest--implying that all that's natural to you, that sets you apart from others, is an assumption to make you stand out from the rest of the crowd, and that you hate Miss Schley because she happens to have assumed some of the same characteristics, and so makes you seem less unique than you did before."

Lady Holme said nothing for a moment. Then she remarked:

"I'm sure no woman said 'less unique.'"

"Why not?"

"Now did anyone? Confess!"

"What d'you suppose they did say?"

"More commonplace."

He could not help laughing.

"As if you were ever commonplace!" he exclaimed, rather relieved by her manner.

"That's not the question. But then Miss Schley's said to be like me not only in appearance but in other ways? Are we really so Siamese?"

"I can't see the faintest beginning of a resemblance."

"Ah, now you're falling into exaggeration in the other direction."

"Well, not in realities. Perhaps in one or two trifling mannerisms--I believe she imitates you deliberately."

"I think I must ask her to the house."

"Why should you?"

"Well, perhaps you might tell me."

"I don't understand."

"Aren't people saying that the reason I don't ask her is because I am piqued at the supposed resemblance between us?"

"Oh, people will say anything. If we are to model our lives according to their ridiculous ideas--"

"Well, but we do."

"Unless we follow the dictates of our own natures, our own souls."

He lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Be yourself, be the woman who sings, and no one--not even a fool--will ever say again that you resemble a nonentity like Miss Schley. You see--you see now that even socially it is a mistake not to be your real self. You can be imitated by a cute little Yankee who has neither imagination nor brains, only the sort of slyness that is born out of the gutter."

"My dear Robin, remember where we are. You--a diplomatist!"

She put her finger to her lips and got up.