Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

Mary had spent a week at Weyfleet three years ago, but that was before the Biddulphs had climbed as high as "Caradoc." They had lived in rather a stuffy little red villa near the river. A lucky speculation in real estate, and an alliance with an enterprising building contractor had given the firm of Thomson and Biddulph considerable pickings. "Caradoc" was half-way up. The Biddulphs had left the Valley, but they had not quite reached the Hills, though they played tennis, and golfed and danced there. Clare had her eyes on the heights, and she meant her man to scale them.

In order to live upon the Hills it was necessary to possess a considerable income. That and that alone was necessary for the near dweller upon Olympus. A crude criterion, but capable of much refinement, and Clare Biddulph was not crude. That mysterious community living in spacious seclusion among the pinewoods, and much beauty of bracken and tall trees and gardens, did not cohere in the matter of self-consciousness. Much of it was very self- conscious, but not quite self-sure. It was a mixed community; you met Midas and you met his Master, and it was the Master who mattered. That Clare knew. You had to back your money bluff with something better if you desired to be the real thing. There were other values. To play games rather superlatively well was one of the most important. Smartness counted, that ultra-refinement of smartness, expensive simplicity. You must dance well, and play a good game of bridge, and be able to look other women calmly in the eyes, and "my dear" them with complete composure. If you had one or two little cultured hobbies, and did not advertise them too flagrantly a little mysterious radiance was added. It was allowed that you might know something about mezzotints or lacquer, or dabble nicely in Theosophy, or be an amateur connoisseur of the dramatic or collect first editions. The Hills had their select few, some really charming and notable people, and Clare had her eyes upon these.