Her journey was not to be a long one. She was going to change trains in
London and go half an hour into Surrey to spend a few days with a
friend. Lady Kingsmead, when told of the speedy jilting of the desirable
Pontefract, and the subsequent acceptance of young Joyselle, had been
disagreeable.

"It is ridiculous, and everyone will say you are cradle-snatching," she
had said. "When you are forty he will be thirty-seven--almost a boy
still."

"Dearest mamma," returned the girl with a very unfilial lift of her
upper lip, "forty is--_youth_!"

"And for you to marry a nobody; the son of nobody knows whom!"

"But everybody knows who his father is--which is rather distinguished
nowadays!"

Then Lady Kingsmead, as was natural, quite lost her temper and stormed.
Brigit was an idiot, a fool, a beastly little creature to do such a
thing. Ponty was a gentleman, at least, whereas----

"Whereas Théo is a delightful, nice, perfectly presentable young man,
and the son of the greatest violinist of the century."

"Ah, bah! of the last ten years, yes."

"Of the century. As to Ponty--why don't you marry him yourself? Anyone
could marry Ponty!"