a sign of the nearing season—­the lonely swallow that is seen scudding through the first break in the year by some enthusiastic ornithologist and recorded in the next morning’s edition of the Times.  She kept a diary, in fact, did Mrs. Butterick, and in about the middle of April of every year, might be noticed the comment, “Madame arrived—­first time this year—­” and then, more than probably the addition, “House-party on the ——­” and thereafter the date, whatever it may have been.

Now, on this occasion, as she always did, she beamed in silence and waited.

“Good morning, Mrs. Butterick.  You got my letter?”

“Yes, madam.”

“These sheets are aired?”

“Dry as a bone, madam.  I felt ’em myself.”

“I shall only be staying the night,” Mrs. Durlacher continued; “I go back to Town to-morrow morning.”

Mrs. Butterick made no reply, If her features could have fallen into an expression of disappointment, they would willingly have done so; but nature had taken no trouble with them.  They were an afterthought.  It seemed as if they had been placed there at the last moment of birth, with no inner mechanism to answer to sensation.  She just said nothing.

“To-morrow morning,” Mrs. Durlacher repeated.

“Yes, madam.”

“And now you can take the chintz covers off everything in this room and the drawing-room as well.  There’s rather a snap in the air; I think perhaps you might have the fire lighted in the dining-room.  And tell one of the gardeners to pick me plenty of daffodils—­not common ones—­not those ordinary double ones, but the best he’s got.  White petals with the yellow trumpets—­you know the ones I mean.  Also some narcissi and a few tulips—­pink ones for the drawing-room.  They must all be on the dining-room table when I come downstairs.  I’ll arrange them myself.  And get my trunks sent up to me at once—­I want to change my dress.  Taylor and Mason are coming down by train; they’ll be here any minute now.  The trap went for them—­didn’t it?”

“Yes, madam—­at half-past ten.”

“Well, then, that’s all, Mrs. Butterick.  What time is it?”

The housekeeper extracted a silver watch with its flowery, ornamental dial from the recesses of an ample bosom.  She drew it out by the chain and, once free, it swung violently to and fro till she caught it.

“A quarter past eleven, madam.”

“Very well, there’s not too much time.  I expect my brother and probably a lady down here to-day.  Oh yes, and by the way—­when they come—­well—­I’ll tell that to Taylor.  You go and see about the flowers and the chintz covers at once—­and my trunks—­immediately.  You’d better come up yourself and unpack for me until Mason arrives.”

When once she heard the crunching wheels of the trap upon the drive, she rang her bell.  Mason entered almost immediately.

“Tell Taylor I want her here at once,” said Mrs. Durlacher, “and come and help me dress before you change your things.”