It was a common generalization about Lord Buntingford. Mrs. Friend had
still--like others--to discover that it did not take one very far.

In the drawing-room, which was hung with French engravings mostly after
Watteau, and boasted a faded Aubusson carpet, a tea-table was set out.
Lord Buntingford, having pushed forward a seat for his guest, went
towards the tea-table, and then thought better of it.

"Perhaps you'll pour out tea--" he said pleasantly. "It'll be your
function, I think--and I always forget something."

Mrs. Friend took her seat obediently in front of the tea-table and the
Georgian silver upon it, which had a look of age and frailty as though
generations of butlers had rubbed it to the bone, and did her best not
to show the nervousness she felt. She was very anxious to please her
new employer.

"I suppose Miss Pitstone will be here before long?" she ventured, when
she had supplied both the master of the house and herself.

"Twenty minutes--" said Lord Buntingford, looking at his watch.
"Time enough for me to tell you a little more about her than I
expect you know."

And again his smile put her at ease.

She bent forward, clasping her small hands.

"Please do! It would be a great help."