r.
Duff-Whalley was christened. And I pointed out the house to you the
other day. You asked what the monstrosity was, and I told you it was
called The Towers."

"I remember. A staring red-and-white house with about thirty
bow-windows and twenty turrets. It denies the landscape."

"Wait," said Jean, "till you see it close at hand. It's the most naked,
newest thing you ever saw. Not a creeper, not an ivy leaf is allowed to
crawl on it; weather seems to have no effect on it: it never gets to
look any less new. And in summer it is worse, for then round about it
blaze the reddest geraniums and the yellowest calceolarias and the
bluest lobelias that it's possible to imagine."

"Ghastly! What is the owner like?"

"Small, with yellowish hair turning grey. She has a sharp nose, and her
eyes seem to dart out at you, take you all in, and then look away. She
is rather like a ferret, and she has small, sharp teeth like a ferret.
I'm never a bit sure she won't bite. She really is rather a wonderful
woman. She hasn't been here very many years, but she dominates everyone.
At whatever house you meet her she has the air of being hostess. She
welcomes you and advises you where to sit, makes suitable conversation
and finally bids you good-bye, and you feel yourself murmuring to her
the grateful 'Such a pleasant afternoon,' that was due to the real
hostess. She is in constant conflict with the other prominent matrons in
Priorsford, but she always gets her own way. At a meeting she is quite
insupportable. She just calmly tells us what we are to do. It's no good
saying we are busy; it's no good saying anything. We walk away with a
great district to collect and a pile of pamphlets under one arm.... Her
nose is a little on one side, and when I sit and look at her presiding
at a meeting I toy with the thought that someone goaded to madness by
her calm persistence had once heaved something at her, and wish I had
been there to see. Really, though, she is rather a blessing in the
place; she keeps us from stagnation. I read somewhere that when they
bring tanks of cod to this country from wherever cod abound, they put a
cat-fish in beside them, and it chases the cod round all the time, so
that they arrive in good condition. Mrs. Duff-Whalley is our cat-fish."

"I see. Has she children?"

"Three. A daughter, married in London--Mrs. Egerton-Thomson--a son at
Cambridge, and a daughter, Muriel, at home. I think it must be very bad
for the Duff-Wha