cheese waiting to be nibbled.

"Do you think she'd have me?" I asked--"the quaint creature, her
ladyship?"

"Only too likely that she would," said Lady Kilmarny. "But remember, the
worst is, she doesn't _know_ she's a quaint creature. She is quite happy
about herself, offensively happy, and would consider you the 'creature.'
A truly awful person, my dear. A man in this hotel--the little thing you
saw me talking to this morning, knows all about them both. I think they
began in Peckham or somewhere. They _would_, you know, and call it
'S.W.' She was a chemist's daughter, and he was the humble assistant,
long before the Pill materialized, so she refused him, and married a
dashing doctor. But unfortunately he dashed into the bankruptcy court,
and afterward she probably nagged him to death. Anyway he died--but not
till long after Sam Turner had taken pity on some irrelevant widow, as
his early love was denied him. The widow had a boy, to whom the
stepfather was good--(really a very decent person according to his
lights!) and kept on making pills and millions, until last year he lost
his first wife and got a knighthood. The old love was a widow by this
time, taking in lodgers in some neighbourhood where you _do_ take
lodgers, and Sir Samuel found and gathered her like a late rose.
Naturally she puts on all the airs in the world, and diamonds in the
morning. She'll treat you like the dirt under her feet, because that's
her conception of her part--and yours. But I'll introduce you to her if
you like."

After a little reflection, I did like; but as it seemed to me that
there'd better not be two airs in the family, I said that I'd put on
none at all, and make no pretensions.