me means or other she has got
wind of my engagement. But how?'

But I said nothing. I, too, was naturally rather nervous. Mothers are
kittle cattle.

'I'll tell her at supper,' I decided.

And she hovered round me, like a sea-gull round a steamer, as I went
upstairs.

There was a ring at the door. She flew, instead of letting the servant
go. It was a porter with my bag.

Just as I was coming down-stairs again there was another ring at the
door. And my mother appeared magically out of the kitchen, but I was
beforehand with her, and with a laugh I insisted on opening the front
door myself this time. A young woman stood on the step.

'Please, Mrs Dawson wants to know if Mrs Durance can kindly lend her
half-a-dozen knives and forks?'

'Eh, with pleasure,' said my mother, behind me. 'Just wait a minute,
Lucy. Come inside on the mat.'

I followed my mother into the drawing-room, where she kept her silver
in a cabinet.

'That's Mrs Dawson's new servant,' my mother whispered. 'But she
needn't think I'm going to lend her my best, because I'm not.'

'I shouldn't, if I were you,' I supported her.

And she went out with some second-best in tissue paper, and beamed on
Mrs Dawson's servant with an assumed benevolence.

'There!' she exclaimed. 'And the compliments of the season to your
mistress, Lucy.'

After that my mother disappeared into the kitchen to worry an entirely
capable servant. And I roamed about, feeling happily excited, examining
the drawing-room, in which nothing was changed except the incandescent
light and the picture postcards on the mantelpiece. Then I wandered
into the dining-room, a small room at the back of the house, and here
an immense surprise awaited me.

Supper was set for three!

'Well,' I reflected. 'Here's a nice state of affairs! Supper for three,
and she hasn't breathed a word!'

My mother was so clever in social matters, and especially in the
planning of delicious surprises, that I believed her capable even of
miracles. In some way or other she must have discovered the state of my
desires towards Agnes. She had written, or something. She and Agnes had
been plotting together by letter to startle me, and perhaps
telegraphing. Agnes had fibbed in telling me that she could not
possibly come to Bursley for Christmas; she had delightfully fibbed.
And my mother had got her concealed somewhere in the house, or was
momentarily expecting her. That explained the tears, the nervousness,
the