For she was not vulgar, neither did she boast. But the expression
of her keen and somewhat worldly countenance betokened the intention
of holding her own.

The Honourable Mrs. Harrington was not only beautifully dressed, but
knew how to wear her clothes en grande dame.

"Yes," she was saying, "Luke has failed to pass off the Britannia.
It is a rare occurrence. I suppose the boy is a fool."

Mrs. Harrington was rather addicted to the practice of calling other
people names. If the butler made a mistake she dubbed him an idiot
at once. She did not actually call her present companion, Mrs.
Ingham-Baker, a fool, possibly because she considered the fact too
apparent to require note.

Mrs. Ingham-Baker, stout and cringing, smoothed out the piece of
silken needlework with which she moved through life, and glanced at
her companion. She wanted to say the right thing. And Mrs.
Harrington was what the French call "difficult." One could never
tell what the right thing might be. The art of saying it is,
moreover, like an ear for music, it is not to be acquired. And Mrs.
Ingham-Baker had not been gifted thus.

"And yet," she said, "their father was a clever man--as I have been
told."

"By whom?" inquired Mrs. Harrington blandly.

Mrs. Ingham-Baker paused in distress.