The Countess of Lowndes Square

CYNTHIA, COUNTESS OF HAMPSHIRE, was sitting in an extraordinarily elaborate dressing-gown oneinnocent morning in June, alternately opening letters and eating spoonfuls of sour milk preparedaccording to the prescription of Professor Metchnikoff. Every day it made her feel younger andstronger and more irresponsible (which is the root of all joy to natures of a serious disposition), andsince (when a fortnight before she began this abominable treatment) she felt very young already, shewas now almost afraid that she would start again on measles, croup, hoops, whooping-cough, peppermints, and other childish ailments and passions. But since this treatment not only inducedyouth, but was discouraging to all microbes but its own, she hoped as regards ailments that shewould continue to feel younger and younger without suffering the penalties of childhood. The sour milk was finished long before her letters were all opened, for there was no one inLondon who had a larger and more festive post than she. Indeed, it was no wonder that everybodyof sense (and most people of none) wanted her to eat their dinners and stay in their houses, for hervolcanic enjoyment of life made the dullest of social functions a high orgy, and since nothing isnearly so infectious as enjoyment, it followed that she was much in request. Even in her fiftieth year she retained with her youthful zest for life much of the extremeplainness of her girlhood, but time was gradually lightening the heaviness of feature that had onceformed so remarkable an ugliness, and in a few years more, no doubt, she would become as nicelooking as everybody else of her age