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'What do they all want?'
'I think they want to see you,' said Mr. Smithson, who was sitting by
her side. 'A very natural desire.'
Lesbia laughed, and lowered the big yellow sunshade, so as to hide
herself altogether from the starers.
'How silly!' she exclaimed. 'It is all the fault of those horrid
photographers: they vulgarise everything and everybody. I will never be
photographed again.'
'Oh yes, you will, and in that frock. It's the prettiest thing I've seen
for a long time. Why do you hide yourself from those poor wretches, who
keep rowing backwards and forwards in an obviously aimless way, just to
get a peep at you _en passant_? What happiness for us who live near you,
and can gaze when we will, without all those absurd manoeuvres. There
goes the signal--and now for a hard-fought race.'
Lesbia pretended to be interested in the racing--she pretended to be
gay, but her heart was as heavy as lead. The burden of debt, which had
been growing ever since Seraphine sent in her bill, was weighing her
down to the dust.
She owed three thousand pounds.


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