fire, while, facing the fire and spread in a chair not too low and not
too narrow for her bulk, sat Mrs. Batty, flushed, costumed for spring,
her hat a flower garden.

'Just in time,' Caroline said. 'Touch the bell, please, Sophia.'

'Susan saw me,' Rose said, and the elderly parlourmaid entered at that
moment with the teapot.

'Rose insists on having a latchkey,' Sophia explained. 'What would the
General have said?'

'What, indeed!' Caroline echoed. 'Young rakes are always old prudes.
Yes, the General was a rake, Sophia; you needn't look so modest. I
think I understand men.'

'Yes, yes, Caroline, no one better, but we are told to honour our
father and mother.'

'And I do honour him,' Caroline guffawed, 'honour him all the more.'
She had a deep voice and a deep laugh; she ought, she always said, to
have been a man, but there was nothing masculine about her appearance.
Her dark hair, carefully tinted where greyness threatened, was piled
in many puffs above a curly fringe: on the bodice of her flounced silk
frock there hung a heavy golden chain and locket; ear-rings dangled
from her large ears; there were rings on her fingers, and powder and a
hint of rouge on her face.

She laughed again. 'Mrs. Batty knows I'm right.'