A war tea was not spread that afternoon. Under the walnut tree, supposed to keep flies at a distance, sat Lady Selina in front of a table not groaning but pleasantly purring beneath pre-war delicacies. The Queen Anne silver shimmered delightfully—it seemed to say to Tiddy: “We impose ourselves because of our quality; we are of finer metal, less alloy in us.” To behold Lady Selina making tea was a privilege. She disdained the coarser blends. Her white hands hovered, as if in benediction, above her equipage. The cups and saucers were early Worcester. Once a collector had said protestingly: “My dear Lady, these ought to be in a cabinet.” Lady Selina had replied blandly: “Really?” In her drawing-room priceless bits of Chelsea were at the mercy of housemaids. To lock up such objects seemed to Lady Selina equivalent to putting a price upon them. It meant advertising your own possessions, inviting envy as well as admiration. The vieille souche took all that for granted. Age, not rarity, sanctified porcelain and furniture—age and use. There is a story of some duke who asked the village curate if he liked the ducal claret. The curate replied thoughtlessly: “It’s very good, your Grace.” Whereupon the great man growled out: “I didn’t ask you, sir, if my claret was good; I asked you if you liked it.” In this same spirit Lady Selina surveyed all guests. She hoped graciously that they liked their entertainment. If they didn’t she remained blandly indifferent.

The girls were not called upon to dissemble much. Lady Selina talked; they listened politely. Her theme happened to be the treatment of her own order in current fiction and on the stage. She contended that justice had not been done to the upper classes. Dickens had imposed caricatures, such as Lord Frederick Verisopht and Sir Mulberry Hawk, upon an immense public, who accepted them as portraits. And ever since men with no more real knowledge of the subject than Dickens had “played to the gallery” in absurd endeavours to present lords as silly and baronets as wicked. “We have our faults,” said Lady Selina, with a bleak smile, “but we are not more foolish or wicked than others. If some of us hide our vices we don’t advertise our virtues. This setting of class against class is criminal. If it ends, as my poor brother predicts, in a dÉbÂcle for us within a few years, some other class—Labour, if you like—will establish a new tyranny far more unendurable than the old. And always there will be distinctions. They flourish, so I am told, most vigorously amongst the unprivileged. They grow rankly, as I know, in the servants’ hall.”

“And in a Red Cross hospital,” added Tiddy. “But don’t you think, Lady Selina, that the overlapping of the classes is a good thing?”

“No, I don’t my dear.”

“The House of Lords, for instance, is representative of all classes.”

“And you do away with it! I for one have never objected to the infusion of fresh blood into the Upper House. Let supreme distinction be ennobled. That is a very different thing from putting beggars on horseback.”

As she spoke Stimson was seen approaching, followed by a male visitor.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Lady Selina. “Stimson was told that we are not at home.”

“It’s Mr. Grimshaw,” said Cicely.

Lady Selina’s brow grew smooth again. She might be “not at home” to a county magnate, but her own people were never turned from her door. Mr. Grimshaw, stepping into what Cicely had called Dr. Pawley’s list slippers, had become, ex officio, one of her people. More, since Cicely’s engagement she had reinstated him honourably as “my boy’s friend.”

“He is bringing us good news of Dr. Pawley.”

She welcomed Grimshaw delightfully, so Tiddy thought. But the young man did not acquit himself quite adequately. He appeared to be slightly brusque and ill at ease. Was it possible that he kowtowed to the lady of the manor? Or, more likely hypothesis, was he embarrassed in the presence of Cicely? He accepted a cup of tea under pressure, and seated himself beside his hostess. Yes, Dr. Pawley was in his garden, convalescent. The faithful Ellen held him under a watchful eye. He would remain in his chair till Grimshaw returned.

“I am very glad to hear such a good account of my dear old friend. Will you allow me to see him to-morrow?”

“Certainly. He is looking forward to that.”

“Through him,” Lady Selina continued graciously, “we have heard of you and your work in France....”

She went on suavely, but Grimshaw responded in monosyllables. It occurred to Tiddy that this visit might be professional. Grimshaw was not behaving as a visitor. Tiddy jumped up.

“I must be off,” she declared.

But in Melshire all leave-takings are protracted. Five minutes elapsed before Miss Tiddle mounted her bicycle. Cicely accompanied her to the front door.

“Are you weakening?” asked Tiddy.

“No.”

“Your mother was sweet to Mr. Grimshaw.”

“She is sweet to all her subjects. He is now a subject. To-morrow he will be regarded as an object. You heard what she said about the overlapping of class distinctions? A shot at me.”

“I took it to myself, Cis.”

“It was meant for me—or, rather, for the future Lady Wilverley.”

“One last word, Cis. I repeat—you are wonderful. Now, if it will help at all, pile up the agony on me.”

“And lose you? I can’t risk that. Besides, my trump card with mother will be that I am acting on my own, as I am. You are a brick, all the same.”

Tiddy sped down the drive.

As she pedalled away she remembered that Grimshaw had not alluded to their meeting just outside Upworthy. Cicely had murmured coolly to him: “You have met Miss Tiddle?” and he had bowed. She wondered whether a clever man was aware that he had given himself away with a wince?