(otherwise her Ladyship's steward) had not come back. Lady Lydiard
dismissed the subject of the artist's widow from further consideration
until the steward returned, and gave her mind to a question of domestic
interest which lay nearer to her heart. Her favorite dog had been ailing
for some time past, and no report of him had reached her that morning.
She opened a door near the fireplace, which led, through a little
corridor hung with rare prints, to her own boudoir. "Isabel!" she called
out, "how is Tommie?"

A fresh young voice answered from behind the curtain which closed the
further end of the corridor, "No better, my Lady."

A low growl followed the fresh young voice, and added (in dog's
language), "Much worse, my Lady--much worse!"

Lady Lydiard closed the door again, with a compassionate sigh for
Tommie, and walked slowly to and fro in her spacious drawing-room,
waiting for the steward's return.

Accurately described, Lord Lydiard's widow was short and fat, and, in
the matter of age, perilously near her sixtieth birthday. But it may be
said, without paying a compliment, that she looked younger than her age
by ten years at least. Her complexion was of that delicate pink tinge
which is sometimes seen in old women with well-preserved constitutions.
Her eyes (equally well preserved) were of that hard light blue color
which wears well, and does not wash out when tried by the test of
tears. Add to this her short nose, her plump cheeks that set wrinkles at
defiance, her white hair dressed in stiff little curls; and, if a doll
could grow old, Lady Lydiard, at sixty, would have been the living
image of that doll, taking life easily on its journey downwards to the