ALTHOUGH Lady Kellynch was a widow, and had had two sons (at the unusual interval of eighteen years), there was something curiously old-maidish about her—I should say that she had a set of qualities that were formerly known by that expression, as there are no such things nowadays as old maids and maiden aunts as contrasted to British matrons. There are merely married or unmarried women. And Lady Kellynch belonged to a long-forgotten type; she was no suffragette; politics did not touch her, and at fifty-four she did not regard herself as the modern middle-aged woman does. It never occurred to her for a moment, for example, to have lessons in the Tango or to learn ski-ing or any other winter sports, in a white jersey and cap. She was not seen clinging to the arm of a professor of roller-skating, nor did she go to fancy-dress balls as Folly or Romeo, as a Pierrette or Joan of Arc, as many of her contemporaries loved to do. She dressed magnificently and in the fashion of the day, and yet she always remained and looked extremely old-fashioned; and though she would wear her hats as they were made nowadays, her hair then had a look that did not go with it; no hairdresser or milliner could ever induce her to do it in a style later than 1887. The larger number of women have had some period of their lives when the fashion has happened to suit them, or when, for some reason or another, they have had a special success, and most of these cling fondly to that epoch. Lady Kellynch never got away from 1887 and the time of Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee. All the fads of the hour seemed to have passed over her since then, from bicycling to flying, from classical dancing or ragtime to enthusiasm about votes for women; the various movements had passed over her without leaving any hurt or effect. Lady Kellynch had had a success in 1887; she cherished tenderly a photograph of herself in an enormous bustle, with an impossibly small waist, a thick high fringe over her eyes, and a tight dog-collar. The bald bare look about the ears, and the extraordinary figure resembling a switchback made her look very much older then than she did now. But more than one smart young soldier (now, probably, steady retired generals, who passed their time saying that the country was going to the dogs), an attachÉ long since married and sunk into domestic life, and one or two other men had greatly admired her; she had had her little dignified flirtations, much as she adored the late Sir Percy Kellynch; her portrait had been painted by Herkomer, and the Prince of Wales (as he then was) had looked at her through his opera glass during the performance of Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet. These were things not to be forgotten. When her husband died, Percy married and Clifford went to school, and Lady Kellynch was left alone in her big house in South Kensington, she became again what I call old-maidish. She had a hundred little rules and fussy little arrangements, of which the slightest disorganisation drove her to distraction. She had long consultations every day with the cook at nine o’clock as to what was to be done with what was left. She liked to be domestic, and would stand over the man who was cleaning the windows and tell him how to do it. Certain things she liked to do herself.

In the drawing-room was a chandelier of the seventies, beautiful in its way, though out of date, and she used to take the lustres down and polish them with her own fingers, taking a great pride in doing this herself. She cared really for no one in the world but her two sons, but she was extremely fond, in her own way, of society and of receiving. She did not keep open house, and hers was not by any means casual hospitality. She hated anyone to call upon her unexpected and uninvited, except on the first and third Thursday of every month. She was very much surprised that in the rush of the present day people had a way of forgetting these days and calling on others. The first Thursday was peculiarly ill-treated and ignored, and preparations on that day were often wasted, while on the second Thursday she would come home and find a quantity of cards, belonging to more or less smart, if dull, people who had left them, with a sigh of relief at their mistake.

Lady Kellynch was good-natured in a cold kind of way, and even lavish; yet she had her queer, petty economies, and was always talking about a mysterious feat that she spoke of as keeping the books down, and was also fond of discovering tiny little dressmakers who used to be with some celebrated one and had now set up for themselves.

Lady Kellynch was very kind to these little dressmakers—she spoke of them as if they were minute to the point of being midgets or dwarfs—she was really rather the curse of their lives, and after a while they would have been glad to dispense with her custom. She wanted them to do impossibilities, such as making her look exactly as she did at Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee (the time when she was so much admired and had such a success), and yet making her look up-to-date now, without any of the horrid fast modern style.

When Clifford was at home things were considerably turned upside down, and when the time of his holidays drew to an end she was conscious of being relieved.

It was the first Thursday, and Lady Kellynch was at home. A day or two before Clifford had spent a day with Pickering and his mother. She had told him he might ask the boy to tea.

“Mother,” said Clifford, who had received a note, “Pickering can’t come to-day.”

“Oh, indeed—what a pity.”

She was really rather glad. Boys at an At Home were a bore and ate all the cake.

“Er—no—he can’t come. But, I say, you won’t mind, will you?—his mother’s coming.”

“His mother!” exclaimed Lady Kellynch, rather surprised.

“Er—yes—I asked her. I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind. She wants to know you.”

“Really? It’s very kind of her, I’m sure.”“You see, in a way, though she’s awfully rich—I suppose she’s a bit of a—you know what I mean—a sort of a nouveau riche. She wants to visit a few decent people, especially not too young.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“She says it’ll sort of pose her, and help her to get into society.”

“What curious things to say to a boy.”

“Oh, she’s awfully jolly, mother. She says everything that comes into her head. She’s ripping—I do like her.”

“Who was she?” asked his mother, with a rather chilling accent.

“I’m sure I don’t know who she was,” said the boy. “I can tell you who she is: she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Good gracious me!”

“We had awful larks,” went on Clifford. “She played with us and Pickering’s kiddy sister. We danced the Tango and had charades. You can’t think what fun it was. And we had tableaux. Mrs. Pickering and I did a lovely tableau, ‘Death in the Desert.’ She fell down dead suddenly, on the sand, you know, and I was a vulture. I’m an awfully good vulture. And I vultured about and hopped round her for some considerable time.”“Horrible!” cried Lady Kellynch. “Revolting! What an unpleasant subject for a game.”

“It wasn’t a game: it was a proper tableau: we had a curtain and all that sort of thing. They said I made a capital vulture. I pecked at Mrs. Pickering. It was a great success.”

“Dear me! Was it indeed? Well, if this lady’s coming, you’d better go and wash your hands,” said Lady Kellynch, who felt a disposition to snub Clifford on the subject.

“Of course I will! I say, mother, what cakes have you got?”

“Really, Clifford, I think you can leave that to me.”

“They have jolly little foie gras sandwiches at the Pickerings.”

“I daresay they have.”

“Can I go and tell cook to make some?”

“Most certainly not, Clifford!” cried the indignant mother.

“But if there aren’t any, she might miss them,” said Clifford.

“She will probably enjoy the change.”

“You can’t think how pretty she is! I say, mother.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I say, can’t you have fur put round the edge of your shoes!”“Fur round the edge of my shoes!” she repeated in a hollow voice.

He twisted his hands together self-consciously.

“Mrs. Pickering had an awful ripping violet sort of dress, and violet satin boots with fur round the edge. … I noticed them when we played ’Death in the Desert.’ I thought they were rather pretty.”

“Extremely bad style, I should think. At any rate, not the sort of thing that I should dream of wearing. Now get along.”

Clifford went down to the kitchen and worried the cook with descriptions of the gorgeous cakes he had seen at the Pickerings till she said that his ma had better accept her notice, and engage the Pickerings’ cook instead.

“Orders from you, Master Clifford, I will not take. And now you’ve got it straight. For grars in the afternoon is a thing I don’t hold with and never would hold with, and I’ve lived in the best families. There’s some nice sandwiches made of gentlemen’s relish made of Blootes’ paste, your ma’s always ’ad since I’ve been here; it’s done for her and the best families I’ve lived in. Fors grars is served at the end of dinner with apsia and jelly, or else in one of them things with crust on the top and truffles. But for tea I consider it quite out of place.”

She went on to say that if she couldn’t have her kitchen to herself without the young gentlemen of the house putting their oar in, she would leave that day month.

Clifford fled, frightened, and tidied himself.

At about five, when two or three old cronies of Lady Kellynch’s were sitting round, talking about the royal family, a gigantic motor, painted white, came to the door, and Mrs. Pickering was announced.

She was very young and very pretty. Her hair was the very brightest gold, and she had rather too much mauve and too much smile; she almost curtsied to her hostess, and instantly gave that lady the impression that she must have been not so very long ago the principal boy at some popular pantomime.