“SHE,” SAID LADY BRADEN, pointing with the utmost frankness and an old-fashioned long sun-shade, “is a girl who might marry anyone — simply anyone!”
    “She is very pretty.”
    “She is not in the least pretty,” Lady Braden contradicted flatly. (Not for nothing was she known as the rudest old lady in Berkshire.) “She’s much too big for that: nothing over five feet seven can be called pretty. But she’s a big handsome creature; and she has brains; and she has fifty thousand pounds.”
    “Isn’t it a wonder, in that case, that she is not married already?”
    “She has brains,” Lady Braden repeated emphatically.
    “Too clever? Makes people afraid of her?”
    “Brains!” Lady Braden repeated, with impatience. “A girl who lets people know that she is clever is a fool. Sylvia Marlowe is no fool; and she won’t allow herself to be married for her money.”
    “Sometimes these girls who might marry anyone end by being girls who marry no one.”
    “I daresay. Most men are fools.”
    “Who is the very good-looking man talking to her now?”
   “My nephew Philip,” Lady Braden replied com­placently.