ull appeal to herself, the highest
authority, and the consequent bestowal of opportunity to nip the mistake
in the bud. Mrs. Brookenham had repeatedly asked herself where in the
world she might have found the money to be disloyal. The Duchess's
standard was of a height--! It matched for that matter her other
elements, which were wontedly conspicuous as usual as she sat there
suggestive of early tea. She always suggested tea before the hour, and
her friend always, but with so different a wistfulness, rang for it.
"Who's to be at Brander?" she asked.

"I haven't the least idea--he didn't tell me. But they've always a lot
of people."

"Oh I know--extraordinary mixtures. Has he been there before?"

Mrs. Brookenham thought. "Oh yes--if I remember--more than once. In
fact her note--which he showed me, but which only mentioned 'some
friends'--was a sort of appeal on the ground of something or other that
had happened the last time."

The Duchess dealt with it. "She writes the most extraordinary notes."

"Well, this was nice, I thought," Mrs. Brookenham said--"from a woman of
her age and her immense position to so young a man."

Again the Duchess reflected. "My dear, she's not an American and she's
not on the stage. Aren't those what you call positions in this country?
And she's also not a hundred."

"Yes, but Harold's a mere baby."

"Then he doesn't seem to want for nurses!" the Duchess replied. She
smiled at her hostess. "Your children are like their mother--they're
eternally young."

"Well, I'M not a hundred!" moaned Mrs. Brookenham as if she wished with
dim perversity she were.

"Every one's at any rate awfully kind to Harold." She waited a moment to
give her visitor the chance to pronounce that eminently natural, but no
pronouncement came--nothing but the footman who had answered her ring
and of whom she ordered tea. "And where did you say YOU'RE going?" she
enquired after this.

"For Easter?" The Duchess achieved a direct encounter with her charming
eyes--which was not in general an easy feat. "I didn't say I was going
anywhere. I haven't of a sudden changed my habits. You know whether I
leave my child--except in the sense of having left her an hour ago at
Mr. Garlick's class in Modern Light Literature. I confess I'm a little
nervous about the subjects and am going for her at five."

"And then where do you take her?"

"Home to her tea. Where should you think?"

Mrs. Brookenham declined, in connexion with