her mind at this moment was in a most conventional state of shock. She
knew it, perceiving quite clearly the irony of the situation. Who were
the Penfolds? A little artist girl?--earning her living--with humble,
perhaps hardly presentable relations--to mate with her glorious, golden
Harry?--Harry whom half the ambitious mothers of England courted and
flattered?

The thought of defeating the mothers of England was however so pleasant
to her sense of humour that she hurriedly abandoned this line of
reflection. What had she been about? to be so blind to Harry's
proceedings? She had been lately absorbed, with that intensity she could
still, at fifty, throw into the most diverse things, in a piece of new
embroidery, reproducing a gorgeous Italian design; and in a religious
novel of Fogazzaro's. Also she had been watching birds, for hours, with a
spy-glass in the park. She said to herself that she had better have been
watching her son.

Meanwhile she was quite aware of the slight sounds from the hall which
heralded the approaching visitors. The footman threw the door open; and
she rose.

There came in, with hurrying steps, a little lady in widow's dress, her
widow's veil thrown back from her soft brown hair and childish face.
Behind her, a tall girl in white, wearing a shady hat.

The little lady held out a hand--eager but tremulous.

"I _hope_, Lady Tatham, we are not intruding? We know it isn't
correct--indeed we are quite aware of it--that we should call upon you
first. But then we know your son--he is such a charming young man!--and