children as apart from the rest of the world. I don't. Connie, Eric, Millicent—just people."
"Eric isn't," protested Judy. "Eric is one of the gods come to earth again."
Madame Claire laughed.
"Not Apollo!" she said. "I never liked his profile."
"No, not Apollo. A youngish sort of Jove, but without his skittishness, or his thunders."
"I know what you mean. There is something simple and Greek about Eric. It's nice of you to see it."
"It's a great pity he's my uncle," remarked Judy. "Do you know, your daughter Millicent has been extremely troublesome lately? I wish you'd speak to her about it. It isn't only the marriage topic. She wants me to pattern myself after the tiresome daughters of her most tiresome friends. You know the sort of girls I mean. They come out in droves each year, and play tennis in droves, and get married in droves, and have offspring in droves, and get buried beside their forefathers in droves. It's so dull. I hate doing things in droves."
This amused Madame Claire.
"Individualists have rather a bad time of it in your mother's particular set," she said. "Of
