Even in its golden days the Square could not have expected such a condescension.  The Peels shopped in London or in Stafford; at a pinch, in Oldcastle.  That was the distinction for the ageing stout lady in black.  Why, she had not in six years recovered from her surprise that her son and Matthew Peel-Swynnerton treated each other rudely as equals!  She and Matthew did not often meet, but they liked each other.  Her involuntary meekness flattered him.  And his rather elaborate homage flattered her.  He admired her fundamental goodness, and her occasional raps at Cyril seemed to put him into ecstasies of joy.

“Well, Mrs. Povey,” he greeted her, standing over her with his hat raised. (It was a fashion he had picked up in Paris.) “Here I am, you see.”

“You’re quite a stranger, Mr. Matthew.  I needn’t ask you how you are.  Have you been seeing anything of my boy lately?”

“Not since Wednesday,” said Matthew.  “Of course he’s written to you?”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” she laughed faintly.  “I had a short letter from him on Wednesday morning.  He said you were in Paris.”

“But since that—­hasn’t he written?”

“If I hear from him on Sunday I shall be lucky, bless ye!” said Constance, grimly.  “It’s not letter-writing that will kill Cyril.”

“But do you mean to say he hasn’t—­” Matthew stopped.

“Whatever’s amiss?” asked Constance.  Matthew was at a loss to know what to do or say.  “Oh, nothing.”

“Now, Mr. Matthew, do please—­” Constance’s tone had suddenly quite changed.  It had become firm, commanding, and gravely suspicious.  The conversation had ceased to be small-talk for her.

Matthew saw how nervous and how fragile she was.  He had never noticed before that she was so sensitive to trifles, though it was notorious that nobody could safely discuss Cyril with her in terms of chaff.  He was really astounded at that youth’s carelessness, shameful carelessness.  That Cyril’s attitude to his mother was marked by a certain benevolent negligence—­this Matthew knew; but not to have written to her with the important news concerning Mrs. Scales was utterly inexcusable; and Matthew determined that he would tell Cyril so.  He felt very sorry for Mrs. Povey.  She seemed pathetic to him, standing there in ignorance of a tremendous fact which she ought to have been aware of.  He was very content that he had said nothing about Mrs. Scales to anybody except his own mother, who had prudently enjoined silence upon him, saying that his one duty, having told Cyril, was to keep his mouth shut until the Poveys talked.  Had it not been for his mother’s advice he would assuredly have spread the amazing tale, and Mrs. Povey might have first heard of it from a stranger’s gossip, which would have been too cruel upon her.

“Oh!” Matthew tried to smile gaily, archly.  “You’re bound to hear from Cyril to-morrow.”

He wanted to persuade her that he was concealing merely some delightful surprise from her.  But he did not succeed.  With all his experience of the world and of women he was not clever enough to deceive that simple woman.