For there has never been anything born under the sun crueller than a twentieth-century woman of fashion to her own sex--except perhaps a starving hyaena tearing asunder its living prey.
Meanwhile, David Helmsley and his young companion had reached the drawing-room, which they found quite unoccupied.

The window-balcony, festooned with rose-silk draperies and flowers, and sparkling with tiny electric lamps, offered itself as an inviting retreat for a quiet chat, and within it they seated themselves, Helmsley rather wearily, and Lucy Sorrel with the queenly air and dainty rustle of soft garments habitual to the movements of a well-dressed woman.
"I have not thanked you half enough," she began, "for all the delightful things you have done for my birthday----" "Pray spare me!" he interrupted, with a deprecatory gesture--"I would rather you said nothing." "Oh, but I must say something!" she went on.

"You are so generous and good in yourself that of course you cannot bear to be thanked--I know that--but if you will persist in giving so much pleasure to a girl who, but for you, would have no pleasure at all in her life, you must expect that girl to express her feelings somehow.

Now, mustn't you ?" She leaned forward, smiling at him with an arch expression of sweetness and confidence.

He looked at her attentively, but said nothing.
"When I got your lovely present the first thing this morning," she continued, "I could hardly believe my eyes.