"Then you'll write to the Princess after
tea, Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster
for the second day, myself. Or shall we
wait until we hear from the Princess? In
case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might
open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the
second. Then there's the Duchess about
the school fete."
There was the murmur of a man's voice,
and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply:
"Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well.
You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear."
The French window swung open a little
wider, and a handsome white-haired old
lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of
features, stepped out of it on to the lawn.
A man followed her, a suggestion of
deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you
again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years.
Alfred,
darling,
Mr.
Hastings
my
husband."
I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred
darling". He certainly struck a rather alien
note. I did not wonder at John objecting
to his beard. It was one of the longest
and blackest I have ever seen. He wore
gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious
impassivity of feature. It struck me that
he might look natural on a stage, but was
strangely out of place in real life. His
voice was rather deep and unctuous. He
placed a wooden hand in mine and said:
"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then,
turning to his wife: "Emily dearest, I think
that cushion is a little damp."
She beamed fondly on him, as he
substituted
another
with
every
demonstration of the tenderest care.
Strange infatuation of an otherwise
sensible woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a
sense of constraint a