Even Constance was a thousand times more interested in relating trifles of Bursley gossip than in listening to details of life in Paris.  Occasionally she had expressed a mild, vapid surprise at things told to her by Sophia; but she was not really impressed, because her curiosity did not extend beyond Bursley.  She, like the rest, had the formidable, thrice-callous egotism of the provinces.  And if Sophia had informed her that the heads of Parisians grew out of their navels she would have murmured:  “Well, well!  Bless us!  I never heard of such things!  Mrs. Brindley’s second boy has got his head quite crooked, poor little fellow!”

Why should Sophia feel sorrowful?  She did not know.  She was free; free to go where she liked and do what she liked, She had no responsibilities, no cares.  The thought of her husband had long ago ceased to rouse in her any feeling of any kind.  She was rich.  Mr. Critchlow had accumulated for her about as much money as she had herself acquired.  Never could she spend her income!  She did not know how to spend it.  She lacked nothing that was procurable.  She had no desires except the direct desire for happiness.  If thirty thousand pounds or so could have bought a son like Cyril, she would have bought one for herself.  She bitterly regretted that she had no child.  In this, she envied Constance.  A child seemed to be the one commodity worth having.  She was too free, too exempt from responsibilities.  In spite of Constance she was alone in the world.  The strangeness of the hazards of life overwhelmed her.  Here she was at fifty, alone.

But the idea of leaving Constance, having once rejoined her, did not please Sophia.  It disquieted her.  She could not see herself living away from Constance.  She was alone—­but Constance was there.

She was downstairs first, and she had a little conversation with Amy.  And she stood on the step of the front-door while Fossette made a preliminary inspection of Spot’s gutter.  She found the air nipping.

Constance, when she descended, saw stretching across one side of the breakfast-table an umbrella, Sophia’s present to her from Paris.  It was an umbrella such that a better could not be bought.  It would have impressed even Aunt Harriet.  The handle was of gold, set with a circlet of opalines.  The tips of the ribs were also of gold.  It was this detail which staggered Constance.  Frankly, this development of luxury had been unknown and unsuspected in the Square.  That the tips of the ribs should match the handle ... that did truly beat everything!  Sophia said calmly that the device was quite common.  But she did not conceal that the umbrella was strictly of the highest class and that it might be shown to queens without shame.  She intimated that the frame (a ’Fox’s Paragon’), handle, and tips, would outlast many silks.  Constance was childish with pleasure.

They decided to go out marketing together.  The unspoken thought in their minds was that as Sophia would have to be introduced to the town sooner or later, it might as well be sooner.  Constance looked at the sky.  “It can’t possibly rain,” she said.  “I shall take my umbrella.”