s was irritated.

"Whoever's that pretty picture over there?"

Mrs. Pickering got up and went to look at the piano.

Lady Kellynch still retained (with several other _passe_ fashions) the
very South Kensington custom of covering up her large piano with a
handsome piece of Japanese embroidery, which was caught up at intervals
into bunchy bits of drapery, fastened by pots of flowers with sashes
round their necks and with a very large number of dark photographs in
frames, so very artistic in their heavy shading that one saw only a
gleam of light occasionally on the tip of the nose or the back of the
neck--all the rest in shadow--all with very large dashing signatures
slanting across the corners, chiefly of former dim social celebrities or
present well-known obscurities. The photograph she was looking at now
was a pretty one of Bertha.

"Ah, that is my daughter-in-law."

Lady Kellynch pointed it out to Lady Gertrude.

"This _is_ pretty--what you can see of it."

"Here she is herself."

Bertha came in.

"Mrs. Pickering--Mrs. Percy Kellynch."

The hostess gave Bertha an imploring look. She took in the situation at
a glance and drew Mrs. Pickering a little aside, where Lady Gertrude
could not listen to her piercing Cockney accent.

Clifford joined the group.

If Lady Kellynch had been, almost against her will, reminded by
something in her visitor of a pantomime, Bertha saw far more. She was
convinced at once that the rich eldest son of Pickering, the Jam King,
had been dazzled and carried away, some fourteen years ago, and bestowed
his enormous fortune and himself, probably against his family's wish, on
a little provincial chorus girl. Her cheery determination to get on, and
an evident sense of humour, made Bertha like her, in spite of her
snobbishness and her manner. She was a change, at least, to meet here,
and when Mrs. Pickering produced her card, which she did to everyone to
whom she spoke, Bertha promised to call and asked her also. Of course
one would have to be a shade careful whom one asked to meet her, but
probably it would be a jolly house to go to. And nowadays! Still, Bertha
was a little surprised that Clifford was so infatuated with the mother
of his friend. She forgot that at twelve years old one is not
fastidious; the taste is crude. If he admired Bertha's fair hair, he
thought Mrs. Pickering's brilliant gold curls still prettier. Besides,
Mrs. Pickering petted and made much of him, and was very