Mrs. Wray had made it known that she was not at home except to the chosen few. The General came on certain days for his "toddy," Gladys on the way home from "teaing it," Mrs. Rumsen, Dolly Haviland, and Rita Cheyne, each for a peep behind the curtain.
Rita Cheyne came oftenest and stayed longest. She had no social responsibilities, she claimed, except that of seeing the small garments in Camilla’s lap made successfully. She was hopelessly bored, more demurely cheerful, more buoyantly pessimistic than ever.
"What a joy it must be," she sighed, "to have an object in life. My objects are all subjective. I have a dreadful fear that I’m getting to be a philosopher."
"I’m afraid so. I used to take such desperate fancies to people. I used to want to make people like me whether they wanted to or not. Now I’m really indifferent. I actually don’t care whether my hat is on straight or not. It’s such a pity. I used to like to be _svelte_, fluffy, and smartly groomed. I didn’t mind suffering the tortures of the rack if I knew I was effective. Now—I’m positively dowdy. I don’t care what I wear so long as I’m comfortable—and I’m actually getting _fat_, Camilla! The horror of it!"
Camilla looked up at the exquisite afternoon frock, which fitted her slender figure as only one made by Patrain could, and smiled.
"Yes, Rita, positively corpulent. It’s a pity. You really had a good figure once."
"The worst of it is that I don’t seem to care," she went on, oblivious. "I used to love to dress for moods—for my moods and for other people’s. I thought that Art could solve every problem that came to me. Art!" she sniffed contemptuously. "Art in a woman is merely a confession of inefficiency. I used to think that Art was immortal. Now I find that only Nature is."
Camilla lifted the tiny sacque with its absurd blue silk cuffs and examined it with a satisfied air. When she had finished she leaned over to Rita and whispered with the air of an oracle:
"It is. You’re right," she sighed. "But it’s my nature to be merely mortal—and I’m going to die very hard. I must continue to hide my inefficiencies—by Art."
"You’re not inefficient," Camilla corrected. "You’re merely feminine—extravagantly feminine——"
"Yes, feminine—but not womanly. Oh, I know what I am!" she concluded fiercely.