for the son she adored she was scarcely a happy woman.  She was personally generous and soft-hearted, but all “causes” found in her rather a critic than a supporter.  The follies of her own class were particularly plain to her; her relations, with their great names, and great “places,” seemed to her often the most ridiculous persons in the world—­a world no longer made for them.  But one must hasten to add that she was no less aware of her own absurdities; so that the ironic mind in her robbed her both of conceit for herself and enthusiasm for others.

Two or three days after the storming of Threlfall Tower, Lady Tatham came in from a mountain ramble at tea-time, expecting her son, who had been away on a short visit.  She entered the drawing-room by a garden door, laden with branches of hawthorn and wild cherry.  In her linen dress and shady hat she still looked youthful, and there were many who could not be got to admit that she was any less beautiful than she had ever been.  These flatterers of course belonged to her own generation; young eyes were not so kind.

Tea had been brought in, and she was busy with the arrangement of a branch of wild cherry in a corner of the room where its pearl and silver blossoms shone out against a background of dull purple, when the door was hastily opened, and a curly-haired youth stood on the threshold who smiled at sight of her.

“You are here, mother!  That’s jolly!  I thought I might find you gone.”

“I put off London till next week.  Mind my hat, you wretch.”

For the young fellow had put his arms round her, kissing her heartily.  She disengaged herself and her hat, affecting to scold; but her eyes betrayed her.  She put up her hand and smoothed back the thick and tumbling hair from his forehead.

“What a ruffian you look!  Where have you been all this time?”

“I stopped in Keswick to do various things—­and then—­I say, shan’t we have some tea?  I’ve got lots to tell you.  Well, in the first place, mother, I’d better warn you, you may have some visitors directly!”

Lady Tatham opened her eyes, struck by the elation of the tone.

“Strangers?”

“Well, nearly—­but I think you’ve seen them.  You know that lady and her daughters who came to White Cottage about two years ago?”

“A Mrs. Penfold?”

“Just so.  I told you I met them—­in April, when you were abroad—­at the Hunt Ball.  But—­well, really, I’ve met them several times since.  The Deacons know them.”  The slight consciousness in the voice did not escape his mother.  “You know you’ve never called on them.  Mother, you are disgraceful about calling!  Well, I met them again this afternoon, just the other side of Whitebeck.  They were in a pony-carriage, and I was in the motor.  It’s a jolly afternoon, and they didn’t seem to have anything particular to do, so I just asked them to come on here, and have tea, and we’d show them the place.”