The baroness and Clovis sat in a much-frequented corner of the Park exchanging biographical confidences about the long succession of passersby.
“Who are those depressed-looking young women who have just gone by?” asked the baroness; “they have the air of people who have bowed to destiny and are not quite sure whether the salute will be returned.”
“Those,” said Clovis, “are the Brimley Bomefields. I dare say you would look depressed if you had been through their experiences.”
“I’m always having depressing experiences,” said the baroness, “but I never give them outward expression. It’s as bad as looking one’s age. Tell me about the Brimley Bomefields.”