At Ravensham House on the borders of Richmond Park, suburban seat of the Casterley family, ever since it became usual to have a residence within easy driving distance of Westminster—in a large conservatory adjoining the hall, Lady Casterley stood in front of some Japanese lilies. She was a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin nose, and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her firm, spidery hand held a letter written in free somewhat sprawling style:
“My dear, mother,
“Geoffrey is motoring up to-morrow. He’ll look in on you on the way if he can. This new war scare has taken him up. I shan’t be in Town myself till Miltoun’s election is over. The fact is, I daren’t leave him down here alone. He sees his ‘Anonyma’ every day. That Mr. Courtier, who wrote the book against War—rather cool for a man who’s been a soldier of fortune, don’t you think?—is staying at the inn, working for the Radical. He knows her, too—and, one can only hope, for Miltoun’s sake, too well—an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with Miltoun, and see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can trust Bertie—he’s really very astute. I must say, that she’s quite a sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing’s known of her here except that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about people? Miltoun’s being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the more awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable. I don’t remember taking such a serious view of life in my youth.”
Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a grimace haunted her face—she had not forgotten her daughter’s youth. Raising the letter again, she read on:
“I’m sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or Agatha, though we did produce them. One doesn’t feel it with Bertie or Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellent effect on Miltoun’s candidature. Claud Harbinger is with us, too, working for Miltoun; but, as a matter of fact, I think he’s after Babs. It’s rather melancholy, when you think that Babs isn’t quite twenty—still, one can’t expect anything else, I suppose, with her looks; and Claud is rather a fine specimen. They talk of him a lot now; he’s quite coming to the fore among the young Tories.”
Lady Casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. A prolonged, muffled sound as of distant cheering and groans had penetrated the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of the lilies and setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. She passed into the hall; where, stood an old man with sallow face and long white whiskers.