wear it once last summer, owing to poor Hubert’s death.  The window was kind, too, to her cheeks, and eyes, which had that touching brightness, and to the silver-powdered darkness of her hair.  And she thought:  ‘I don’t look so very old!’ But her own hat reflected in the hat-shop window displeased her now; it turned down all round, and though she loved that shape, she was afraid it was not fashionable this year.  And she looked long in the window of that shop, trying to persuade herself that the hats in there would suit her, and that she liked what she did not like.  In other shop windows she looked, too.  It was a year since she had seen any, and for thirty-four years past she had only seen them in company with the Squire or with her daughters, none of whom cared much for shops.

The people, too, were different from the people that she saw when she went about with Horace or her girls.  Almost all seemed charming, having a new, strange life, in which she—­Margery Pendyce—­had unaccountably a little part; as though really she might come to know them, as though they might tell her something of themselves, of what they felt and thought, and even might stand listening, taking a kindly interest in what she said.  This, too, was strange, and a friendly smile became fixed upon her face, and of those who saw it—­shop-girls, women of fashion, coachmen, clubmen, policemen—­most felt a little warmth about their hearts; it was pleasant to see on the lips of that faded lady with the silvered arching hair under a hat whose brim turned down all round.

So Mrs. Pendyce came to Piccadilly and turned westward towards George’s club.  She knew it well, for she never failed to look at the windows when she passed, and once—­on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee—­had spent a whole day there to see that royal show.

She began to tremble as she neared it, for though she did not, like the Squire, torture her mind with what might or might not come to pass, care had nested in her heart.

George was not in his club, and the porter could not tell her where he was.  Mrs. Pendyce stood motionless.  He was her son; how could she ask for his address?  The porter waited, knowing a lady when he saw one.  Mrs. Pendyce said gently: 

“Is there a room where I could write a note, or would it be——­”

“Certainly not, ma’am.  I can show you to a room at once.”

And though it was only a mother to a son, the porter preceded her with the quiet discretion of one who aids a mistress to her lover; and perhaps he was right in his view of the relative values of love, for he had great experience, having lived long in the best society.

On paper headed with the fat white “Stoics’ Club,” so well known on George’s letters, Mrs. Pendyce wrote what she had to say.  The little dark room where she sat was without sound, save for the buzzing of a largish fly in a streak of sunlight below the blind.  It was dingy in colour; its furniture was old.  At the Stoics’ was found neither the new art nor the resplendent drapings of those larger clubs sacred to the middle classes.  The little writing-room had an air of mourning:  “I am so seldom used; but be at home in me; you might find me tucked away in almost any country-house!”