The small attentions which in the Cardew household took the place
of loving demonstrations had always touched her. As a family the
Cardews were rather loosely knitted together, but there was
something very lovable about her mother.

Grace Cardew kissed her, and then held her off and looked at her.

"Mercy, Lily!" she said, "you look as old as I do."

"Older, I hope," Lily retorted. "What a marvel you are, Grace dear."
Now and then she called her mother "Grace." It was by way of being
a small joke between them, but limited to their moments alone. Once
old Anthony, her grandfather, had overheard her, and there had been
rather a row about it.

"I feel horribly old, but I didn't think I looked it."

They got into the car and Grace held out the box to her. "From your
father, dear. He wanted so to come, but things are dreadful at the
mill. I suppose you've seen the papers." Lily opened the box, and
smiled at her mother.

"Yes, I know. But why the subterfuge about the flowers, mother dear?
Honestly, did he send them, or did you get them? But never mind
about that; I know he's worried, and you're sweet to do it. Have
you broken the news to grandfather that the last of the Cardews is
coming home?"

"He sent you all sorts of messages, and he'll see you at dinner."