shopping, had tired her--and the disquieting suspicion laid hold of
her that she was more easily fatigued than she used to be. While
reading her novel in the train, she counted her years, and
compared herself with the women she knew whose ages were recorded in
the Peerage, and who could therefore be proved to be as old as herself.
Some of them were wrinkled hags. Carelessness or ill-health, doubtless,
she reflected; and neither charge could be laid at her door. Heigh-ho!
That horrid man!

It was dark night when they reached the little station belonging to the
mansion that was their goal. A dozen other guests and their servants
and baggage crowded the platform, and half-a-dozen carriages and
luggage-brakes the yard behind; and Deb was at once in charge of a tall
footman, Rosalie struggling through the press with jewel-case and
dressing-bag, chattering French to one of her familiars in the rear.
Distracted stationmaster and porters uncovered to the stately woman as
she passed. It was all a matter of course to her these days.

She was too late for the big tea-party; the men had gone to the
smoking-room, the women to their own firesides. After a brief but
affectionate interview with her titled hostess, Deb was soon at hers,
slippered and dressing-gowned, sipping the jaded woman's stimulant,
warming the damp and dismalness out of her, assuring herself
confidently that she was not an old woman, and had no intention of
becoming one.

Certainly, when Rosalie had dressed her, she was entitled to an easy
mind. The best of everything tonight, in vindication of her still
unimpaired beauty and potency. Shimmering brocade of her favourite red,
and lace like fairy work; and then that magnificent satin-white breast