“The idiot!” said her Ladyship, thinking of Mr. Tollmidge, “I never even heard of him, in my husband’s lifetime; I never even knew that he was really related to Lord Lydiard, till I found his letters.  What is to be done next?”

She looked, as she put that question to herself, at an open newspaper thrown on the table, which announced the death of “that accomplished artist Mr. Tollmidge, related, it is said, to the late well-known connoisseur, Lord Lydiard.”  In the next sentence the writer of the obituary notice deplored the destitute condition of Mrs. Tollmidge and her children, “thrown helpless on the mercy of the world.”  Lady Lydiard stood by the table with her eyes on those lines, and saw but too plainly the direction in which they pointed—­the direction of her check-book.

Turning towards the fireplace, she rang the bell.  “I can do nothing in this matter,” she thought to herself, “until I know whether the report about Mrs. Tollmidge and her family is to be depended on.  Has Moody come back?” she asked, when the servant appeared at the door.  “Moody” (otherwise her Ladyship’s steward) had not come back.  Lady Lydiard dismissed the subject of the artist’s widow from further consideration until the steward returned, and gave her mind to a question of domestic interest which lay nearer to her heart.  Her favorite dog had been ailing for some time past, and no report of him had reached her that morning.  She opened a door near the fireplace, which led, through a little corridor hung with rare prints, to her own boudoir.  “Isabel!” she called out, “how is Tommie?”

A fresh young voice answered from behind the curtain which closed the further end of the corridor, “No better, my Lady.”

A low growl followed the fresh young voice, and added (in dog’s language), “Much worse, my Lady—­much worse!”

Lady Lydiard closed the door again, with a compassionate sigh for Tommie, and walked slowly to and fro in her spacious drawing-room, waiting for the steward’s return.

Accurately described, Lord Lydiard’s widow was short and fat, and, in the matter of age, perilously near her sixtieth birthday.  But it may be said, without paying a compliment, that she looked younger than her age by ten years at least.  Her complexion was of that delicate pink tinge which is sometimes seen in old women with well-preserved constitutions.  Her eyes (equally well preserved) were of that hard light blue color which wears well, and does not wash out when tried by the test of tears.  Add to this her short nose, her plump cheeks that set wrinkles at defiance, her white hair dressed in stiff little curls; and, if a doll could grow old, Lady Lydiard, at sixty, would have been the living image of that doll, taking life easily on its journey downwards to the prettiest of tombs, in a burial-ground where the myrtles and roses grew all the year round.