He learned in time that this unnoticeableness was the most conspicuous thing about her.  Burning at best with a mild light, she became invisible in the glare of her mother’s personality.  It was in fact only as a product of her environment that poor Hermione struck the imagination.  With the smartest woman in London as her guide and example she had never developed a taste for dress, and with opportunities for enlightenment from which Garnett’s fancy recoiled she remained simple, unsuspicious and tender, with an inclination to good works and afternoon church, a taste for the society of dull girls, and a clinging fidelity to old governesses and retired nurse-maids.  Mrs. Newell, whose boast it was that she looked facts in the face, frankly owned that she had not been able to make anything of Hermione.  “If she has a role I haven’t discovered it,” she confessed to Garnett.  “I’ve tried everything, but she doesn’t fit in anywhere.”

Mrs. Newell spoke as if her daughter were a piece of furniture acquired without due reflection, and for which no suitable place could be found.  She got, of course, what she could out of Hermione, who wrote her notes, ran her errands, saw tiresome people for her, and occupied an intermediate office between that of lady’s maid and secretary; but such small returns on her investment were not what Mrs. Newell had counted on.  What was the use of producing and educating a handsome daughter if she did not, in some more positive way, contribute to her parent’s advancement?

III

“IT’S about Hermy,” Mrs. Newell said, rising from the heap of embroidered cushions which formed the background of her afternoon repose.

Her sitting-room at Ritz’s was full of penetrating warmth and fragrance.  Long-stemmed roses filled the vases on the chimney-piece, in which a fire sparkled with that effect of luxury which fires produce when the weather is not cold enough to justify them.  On the writing-table, among notes and cards, and signed photographs of celebrities, Mrs. Newell’s gold inkstand, her jewelled penholder, her heavily-monogrammed despatch-box, gave back from their expensive surfaces the glint of the flame, which sought out and magnified the orient of the pearls among the lady’s laces and found a mirror in the pinky polish of her finger-tips.  It was just such a scene as a little September fire, lit for show and not for warmth, would delight to dwell on and pick out in all its opulent details; and even Garnett, inured to Mrs. Newell’s capacity for extracting manna from the desert, reflected that she must have found new fields to glean.

“It’s about Hermy,” she repeated, making room for him among the cushions.  “I had to see you at once.  We came over yesterday from London.”

Garnett, seating himself, continued his leisurely survey of the room.  In the glitter of Mrs. Newell’s magnificence Hermione, as usual, faded out of sight, and he hardly noticed her mother’s allusion.