Danyers never forgot the day when Mrs. Memorall happened to mention that
she knew Mrs. Anerton. He had known Mrs. Memorall for a year or more, and
had somewhat contemptuously classified her as the kind of woman who runs
cheap excursions to celebrities; when one afternoon she remarked, as she
put a second lump of sugar in his tea:

"Is it right this time? You're almost as particular as Mary Anerton."

"Mary Anerton?"

"Yes, I never _can_ remember how she likes her tea. Either it's lemon
_with_ sugar, or lemon without sugar, or cream without either, and
whichever it is must be put into the cup before the tea is poured in; and
if one hasn't remembered, one must begin all over again. I suppose it was
Vincent Rendle's way of taking his tea and has become a sacred rite."

"Do you _know_ Mrs. Anerton?" cried Danyers, disturbed by this careless
familiarity with the habits of his divinity.

"'And did I once see Shelley plain?' Mercy, yes! She and I were at school
together--she's an American, you know. We were at a _pension_ near Tours
for nearly a year; then she went back to New York, and I didn't see her
again till after her marriage. She and Anerton spent a winter in Rome
while my husband was attached to our Legation there, and she used to be
with us a great deal." Mrs. Memorall smiled reminiscently. "It was _the_
winter."

"The winter they first met?"

"Precisely--but unluckily I left Rome just before the meeting took place.