sign of life except in the mornings, when a solemn butler or a
uniformed parlour-maid appears for a moment at the door like some
creature of the sea coming up for air, then unobtrusively retires.

No. 8 was exactly like its neighbours, consisting of an exterior
boasting a huge oak door, with cold, stone steps leading up to it, and
an interior composed of rooms with very high ceilings, an insufficient
and uncomfortable supply of furniture, large pictures and small grates,
terrific beds and meagre chairs, and a general air of so much marble
and bare floor that one could almost imagine that house-cleaning could
be accomplished by turning on the hose.

After Lady Durwent had taken possession she sent for her husband, but
that gentleman reminded her that he was much happier at Roselawn,
though he would be glad if she would keep a room for him when business
at the 'House' or with his lawyers necessitated his presence in town.
Unhampered, therefore, by a husband, Lady Durwent prepared to invade
London Society, only to receive a shock at the very opening of the
campaign.

The Ironmonger had preceded her!

It is one of the tragedies of the _élite_ that even peers are not
equal. The law of class distinction, that amazing doctrine of
timidity, penetrated even the oak door of 8 Chelmsford Gardens. The
Ironmonger's daughter found that being the daughter of a man who had
made an honest living rendered her socially the unequal of the
daughters of men who, acting on a free translation of 'The earth is the
Lord's,' had done nothing but inherit unearned substance.