mercifully the observation was checked by the entry of Mrs. St.
Aubyn Fothergill.

She was a handsome woman, always dominated by an air of serious
preoccupation, sumptuously, but not tastefully dressed. In the
social struggle upwards, wealth was the only weapon she possessed,
and wealth without dexterity has been known to fail before this.
She made efforts, indeed, to imitate Mrs. Sinclair in the
elegancies of menage, and to pose as a woman of mind after the
pattern of Mrs. Gradinger; but the task first named required too
much tact, and the other powers of endurance which she did not
possess.

"You'll have some tea, Mrs. Fothergill?" said the Marchesa. "It's
so good of you to have come."

"No, really, I can't take any tea; in fact, I couldn't take any
lunch out of vexation at having to put you off, my dear Marchesa."

"Oh, these accidents will occur. We were just discussing the best
way of getting round them," said the Marchesa. "Now, dear,"
--speaking to Mrs. Sinclair--"let's have your plan. Mrs. Gradinger
has fastened like a leech on the Canon and Mrs. Wilding, and won't
hear a word of what you have to say."

"Well, my scheme is just an amplification of your mathematical
illustrations, that we should all learn to cook for ourselves. I
regard it no longer as impossible, or even difficult, since you
have informed us that you are a mistress of the art. We'll start a
new school of cookery, and you shall teach us all you know."