Duplicate Death Part 2

"Oh, I know very well I'm not wanted!" said Miss Pickhill, in no way abashed. "But blood's thicker than water, and I know my duty, Lily!"

With these words she offered her cheek to her sister, a courtesy which Mrs. Haddington acknowledged by touching it with her own, said that there was no need to ring for the butler, since she was quite capable of seeing herself out, and went away. Mrs. Haddington was just about to go up to her bedroom when the door opened again, and her daughter strolled into the room.

Cynthia Haddington was nineteen years old, and a girl of quite outstanding beauty. She was dazzlingly fair, with large, china-blue eyes, and hair of s.h.i.+ning gold. A slender figure, exquisite tailoring, and the discreet use of mascara on brows and lashes brought her appearance to perfection. An expensive finis.h.i.+ng-school, while adding very little to her mental attainments, had taught her to move with more grace than was often to be seen amongst her contemporaries; she was a good dancer; she skated well; played a moderate game of tennis; and had a good enough seat on a horse to show to advantage on the Row, if not in the hunting-field. Her disposition was uneven; nor did she give the impression of being one who enjoyed robust health. During her first season she had flagged rather frequently; but she seemed to be growing accustomed to late hours and town-life, and was beginning to develop astonis.h.i.+ng recuperative powers. When she was doing what she liked, she was gay and good-humoured, but when anything happened to thwart her plans she was inclined to fall into what her mother called a nerve-storm and everyone else called tantrums. Those who disliked her said that she was wholly devoid of intellect, but this was unjust. Whenever she had a few minutes to spare between her various engagements she would turn over the pages of society journals, even reading the captions under the pictures; and she never entered her bedroom without turning on the radio.

She came in now, looking tired, but extremely smart in navy-blue, with a tiny hat on her head, and very high heels to her shoes, and uttered in the slightly adenoidal voice acquired through constant study of the delivery in vogue amongst her favourite announcers: "Oh, Mummy, too sickening! I walked into Aunt Violet on the doorstep! I do think she's too lethal! Why do you let her absolutely infest the house?"

"Because I can't stop her," replied Mrs. Haddington. Her eyes ran over the charming figure before her, and softened. "That frock suits you. I wasn't sure, at the time, but it's just right. Where have you been, darling?"

"Oh, I went to a flick with Lance, and then tea," responded Cynthia, sinking into a chair and casting off her hat. "It was rather ghastly, really, with captions and things, because of being in Italian, and an absolute purge, Mummy, which Lance thought was too terrific!"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Haddington. "Lance... Well, that's all right, I suppose. I can't say I really like that young man, and in some ways I'd rather hear that you were running round with Timothy Harte."

"I think Timothy's marvellous!" agreed her daughter, with simple enthusiasm. "I mean, he's much betterlooking than Lance, and I go frightfully big for that kind of blue eye that goes with dark hair, don't you? In some ways, I wish it was him that was a peer, and not Lance."

Mrs. Haddington saw nothing to deprecate in this naive speech; she agreed with it in the main, but said that peers were not everything. "I don't like the way Guisborough lives, or the ridiculous ideas he has. If he hadn't come into the t.i.tle -"She paused. "Well, of course, he is Lord Guisborough, but he wasn't brought up to be!" she said. "From all I can discover, his mother was quite a common sort of person, besides - But never mind that!"

"D'you mean being Lance's father's mistress before he married her?" enquired Cynthia. "I know all about that. Trixie's frightfully proud of it, because she believes in doing away with marriage-ties, on account of being a Communist."

"I can believe anything of Beatrice Guisborough, but doing away with marriage-ties has nothing whatsoever to do with Communism that I ever heard of!"

"Oh, hasn't it? P'raps I got it wrong, then. Only I do know she wishes her father hadn't married her mother, because if he hadn't Lance wouldn't be Lord Guisborough, and she simply hates that. She won't be an Honourable herself, and she's always trying to get Lance to go on being plain Mr. Guisborough. Actually, I don't think Lance wants to, poor sweet. In fact, I think he's rather thrilled about being a Lord."

"Then I wish he would learn to behave like one!" said Mrs. Haddington tartly.

"Yes, I do too," agreed Cynthia.

"In some ways, I should prefer young Harte for you."

"Yes, but he won't ever be a Lord, Mummy," Cynthia pointed out.

"No, but he'll be a baronet. He comes of a very good family; he's well-off; and he's got the sort of background I want for you, my pet. I'm not too sure about Guisborough. The people he mixes with, and the political opinions he holds, and the fact that he wasn't brought up in the right surroundings - well, sometimes I wonder whether he'll ever have the entree - t.i.tle or no t.i.tle! His father seems to have been a waster, and of course he more or less dropped out when he made that disastrous marriage."

"How on earth did you find out all this?" demanded Cynthia.

"I made it my business to find out," said Mrs. Haddington shortly. "I'm not going to let you make a mistake that might ruin your life. You're all I've got, and all I care for, Cynthia, and I'm determined you shall have the best!"

Her daughter yawned. "Actually, I shall marry anyone I like," she said. "In some ways, I think I should rather like it to be Lance, because there's simply nothing he wouldn't do to please me, besides being Lord Guisborough. Of course, he isn't utterly devastating ,like - oh, like anyone! Anyway, I haven't made up my mind, and the whole thing is too boring!"

Mrs. Haddington looked searchingly down into the flower-like face, just now set into lines of weariness and discontent. "You're tired," she said. "You ought to go straight to bed, only that we're going to this first night."

"I shall be all right," Cynthia murmured, her eyelids drooping.

"You shouldn't have let Guisborough take you to the cinema this afternoon."

"Oh, Mummy, don't be so silly! What on earth else was there to do? Sit at home, and read a book?"

Mrs. Haddington appeared to feel the force of this argument, for she said nothing for a moment or two. The delicate chime of an ormolu clock on the mantleshelf made her raise her eyes quickly to it, and exclaim: "We must hurry, or we shall be late! Cynthia - tell me, my darling! - you haven't been meeting Dan unknown to me, have you?"

Cynthia's eyes flew open at that. "Dan? Whatever do you mean?"

Mrs. Haddington sat down on the arm of her daughter's chair, and tenderly smoothed the helmet of spun gold about her pretty head. "Listen, my pet! I know Dan's attractive, but he's not the man for you. He's an - an old friend of mine, but if I thought that you -'

"Darling Mummy, do be your age!" begged Cynthia. "I haven't the slightest desire to cut you out with Dan!"

Mrs. Haddington saw no need to reprove her offspring for this speech. She merely said: "Then that's all right. But you mustn't think I don't know that he's been doing his utmost to get you to fall for him. And, of course, men of his age -"

"Too Victorian!" interrupted Cynthia. "Really, Mummy! Oh, G.o.d, is it actually six o'clock? I must fly!"

She wrenched her slim body out of the chair, and bent to pick up the discarded hat. Mrs. Haddington said: "You'll have time for a hot bath: it'll freshen you up."

"I shall be all right," Cynthia repeated. "Who's coming with us?"

"Roddy Vickerstown, the Kenelm Guisboroughs, and Freddy Atherstone."

"Christ!" observed Cynthia.

"Well, I know, darling, but the Kenelm Guisboroughs know everybody, and I'm particularly anxious to get you invited to Mrs. Atherstone's dance. It'll be one of those intime affairs -"

"It sounds lousy," said Cynthia. "And Kenelm Guisborough is so dull he makes me practically basinsick, besides having that dim wife, and hating Lance's guts for being the heir! I suppose it'll be some ghastly play, too, with a Message, or something that makes you want to cry with boredom!"

Mrs. Haddington regarded her in some perturbation. "Darling, if you're really too tired, I'll ring Nest up, and ask her if she can possibly -"

"Oh, Mummy, do stop fussing!" Cynthia said impatiently. "I shall be all right when I've had a bath!"

Mrs. Haddington looked doubtful, but when she next saw her daughter she perceived that the hot bath had had unexpectedly recuperative powers. A vision in delicate shades of floating yellow chiffon, Cynthia ran down the stairs three-quarters of an hour later, and burst upon the a.s.sembled theatre-party, partaking of sandwiches and c.o.c.ktails in the library, with apologies for her tardiness on her smiling lips, and such a brilliant glow in her eyes as caused Mr. Freddy Atherstone, hovering on the brink of matrimony with another, to experience a serious cardiac qualm. Only Mrs. Haddington, staring for an unwinking moment, seemed to derive no pleasure from her daughter's radiant beauty; and although Mrs. Kenelm Guisborough afterwards informed her husband that Lilias had looked at Cynthia in the most extraordinary way, the revealing moment pa.s.sed so swiftly that Mr. Kenelm Guisborough was able to a.s.sert that he had noticed nothing, and that his wife was always imagining things.

Chapter Four.

By the time that Mrs. Haddington's duplicate Bridge-party a.s.sembled, at nine o'clock on a Tuesday evening, several persons' tempers were exacerbated, and Miss Beulah Birtley had been obliged to swallow an aspirin to quell an incipient headache.

The day began badly with the inevitable discovery by one of the invited guests that circ.u.mstances over which he had no control would prevent his honouring his engagement. Having a.s.sured the delinquent, in her sweetest voice, that it didn't matter at all, Mrs. Haddington slammed down the telephone, and ordered her maid, who had just brought up her breakfast-tray, to send Miss Birtley to her at once, and to tell her to bring the address-book with her. Upon its being pointed out to her that Miss Birtley was not due to arrive in Charles Street for another quarter of an hour, she delivered herself of some rather venomous remarks about the inefficiency and laziness of every member of her staff, which did nothing to endear her to the representative before her. Indeed, this prim-lipped virgin lost no time in requesting her employer, in accents of painful gentility, to accept her notice.

"Don't be a fool! Why should you want to leave?" demanded Mrs. Haddington.

Miss Mapperley said that she would rather not say; and at once, and in curious contradiction of her statement, began to enumerate the many and varied reasons which made her disinclined to remain under Mrs. Haddington's roof. Chief among these seemed to be her dislike of being expected to wait on two people. She said that she had never been one to complain but that maiding Miss Cynthia was one person's work, and work, moreover, for which she had not originally been engaged.

As Mrs. Haddington had been determined to set her henchwoman to work that day on the task of altering the frock she had bought for Cynthia to wear that very evening, and which a conscienceless couturier had delivered on the previous afternoon in a far from perfect condition, these fell words made it apparent that some at least of the day's plans would have to be re-edited. She was not the woman to bandy words with one who would all too probably walk out of the house on slight provocation, so she merely dismissed Miss Mapperley from her room and vented her wrath presently on her secretary.

The fact that Beulah did not arrive in Charles Street until ten o'clock furnished her with an excellent excuse for verbally blistering the girl. That she had herself ordered Beulah to go first to Covent Garden market that morning, to buy flowers for the party, she at once acknowledged and dismissed by saying acidly that she would have supposed Beulah to have had time to have gone there twice over.

"Don't stand there making excuses, but go downstairs and fetch me my address book! I'm a man short tonight! And when you've done that you'll have to go to Fulham and get hold of Miss Spennymoor, and tell her I want her to come here today to alter Miss Haddington's frock. Why the wretched woman isn't on the telephone is more than I can fathom! She doesn't deserve to be employed at all when she makes things as difficult as she can. You can do the flowers when you get back."

By the time Beulah returned from her errand to the little dressmaker in Fulham, Mrs. Haddington had been driven into the last ditch, and forced to fall back, for her subst.i.tute guest, on the one person she had vowed never to invite again. Rather than include herself amongst the players, an arrangement which she considered detrimental to the smooth running of, the party, since a hostess's eye (she said) should be everywhere, she had unbent towards Mr. Sydney b.u.t.terwick, who was providentially free that evening. By rearranging the tables, so that he and Dan Seaton-Carew should play in different rooms for as long as was possible, she hoped that he might be deterred from giving expression to the jealousy he suffered every time Mr. Seaton-Carew bestowed his favours elsewhere. Mrs. Haddington was even broader-minded than young Mr. Harte, but she had the greatest dislike of shrill-voiced, nail-biting scenes being enacted at her more select parties.

The intelligence, brought by Beulah, that Miss Spennymoor would, as she herself phrased it, do her best to fit Mrs. Haddington in during the course of the afternoon, brought a slight alleviation of the morning's ills, but this was soon dissipated by an unnerving message from the chef that no lobsters had as yet reached London, and that as none of the fishmongers whom he had personally rung up could give him any a.s.surance that the dilatory crustaceans would arrive in time to appear at the party, he would be glad to know with what alternative delicacy Madame would desire him to fill one hundred patties. Hardly had Mrs. Haddington dealt with this difficulty than her attention was claimed by Thrimby, her extremely supercilious butler. Since she paid him very handsome wages, and always supported him in any quarrel he might have with the other members of the staff, he had been in her service for longer than any of his colleagues, having been engaged when she first moved into the house in Charles Street eighteen months earlier. He was always very polite, for this was something which he owed to himself, but he deeply despised her, and frequently regaled such of the upper servants as he honoured with his patronage with odious comparisons drawn between her and his previous employers. The economies which Mrs. Haddington practised behind the scenes, and, too often, at her servants' expense, never failed to mortify him, for Such Ways, he said, were not what he had been accustomed to. He was in the present instance offended by his mistress's refusal to employ outside labour to a.s.sist him in his duties that evening, and had already conveyed by a stiff bow, and perceptibly raised eyebrows, his opinion of those who were content to see at least half their guests waited on by a secretary and parlour-maid. This affront to his dignity made him disinclined to be co-operative, and led him to lay before Mrs. Haddington a number of difficulties and obstructions which, in any other household, he would quietly have overcome. He was also annoyed with Beulah, whom he disliked at the best of times, because she had dumped an armful of foliage in the basin in the cloakroom, left several shallow wooden boxes containing hot-house flowers in the hall, and adjured him not to touch any of them; so he wound up his speech to Mrs. Haddington by asking her, in a voice of patient long-suffering, whether Miss Birtley would finish the flowers before luncheon. He added that if she intended to arrange the bowls in the cloakroom it seemed a pity that he should not have been warned of this earlier, since this apartment had already been swept and garnished, and would now have to be done again.

This gave Mrs. Haddington an opportunity to say that the flowers ought to have been arranged hours earlier, which made Beulah lose her temper, and retort that so they would have been had she not been sent off on an errand to Fulham. She then stalked off, determined to scatter as many leaves, stalks, and sc.r.a.pings of bark as possible all over the cloakroom floor, and peace reigned until Cynthia Haddington, no early riser, erupted from her bedroom with a loud and insistent demand that everyone should immediately abandon his or her task to search for her favourite powder-compact, which she had mislaid. This appalling loss seemed likely to embitter her whole life, and at once rendered the house hideous. Her temper, never at its best in the morning, grew steadily worse; and after exasperating everyone by insisting that all the unlikeliest places should be searched, reiterating pa.s.sionately that she knew she had had it when she went to bed the previous evening, she nearly provoked a domestic crisis by a.s.serting her belief that someone had stolen the compact.

Mrs. Haddington, who had not till then accorded the disaster more than a perfunctory interest, rather hastily intervened, telling her daughter not to talk nonsense, and reminding her that she had at least four other compacts at her disposal.

"But this was my favourite one!" Cynthia said. "I can't bear it if it's lost! It's the round one, covered with pet.i.tpoint, with -"

"Yes, darling," interrupted Mrs. Haddington, with careful restraint. "We all know what it looks like. It's the one Dan gave you for Christmas, isn't it? I expect it'll turn up. Just don't fuss!"

But this advice fell on deaf ears. Cynthia went on drifting from room to room, leaving chaos in her wake, and maintaining a maddening flow of complaints and conjectures, until she was forced temporarily to abandon her search by the realisation that since it was now one o'clock, at which hour she was pledged to join a luncheon-party at Claridge's, she would obviously be rather late unless she left the house at once.

Mrs. Haddington had also a luncheon-engagement, but found time, before departing to keep it, to condemn Miss Birtley's arrangement of the flowers, characterising the bowls as messy.

"Well, I know they aren't good," said Beulah, sighing. "It's a bit difficult, with so little choice, and carnations will flop so!"

"Anyone with a grain of sense," said Mrs. Haddington, "would have used tangled wire to hold them. It seems to me I have to think of everything! They must all be done again - and do please use your intelligence!"

"I haven't any, so would you also think what kind of wire, and where I can find it?" snapped Beulah.

Mrs. Haddington's eyes narrowed. "My good girl, if you speak to me like that you will have considerable cause to regret it," she said. "Ask Thrimby for some picture-wire, and if he has none you have plenty of time to go out and buy some!"

She then walked away; and Beulah, knowing that Thrimby would derive a subtle pleasure from disclaiming all knowledge of the presence of picture-wire in the house, once more sallied forth on an uninspiring errand.

The rearrangement of the flowers, accompanied as it was by a good deal of walking up and downstairs with the various bowls and vases, left Miss Birtley feeling decidedly limp; nor was the tangling of rather thick and ropy picture-wire unattended by difficulties. A guilty suspicion crossed her mind that picture-wire was not really what was wanted, but by dint of much labour and ingenuity she did succeed in using it to some advantage. The bowls were replaced, the floor of the cloakroom once more swept, the spare wire neatly coiled, and left on the shelf against a future need; and Beulah was just wondering whether she dared s.n.a.t.c.h half an hour's respite, when the front-door bell rang, and, a few minutes later, Thrimby came to inform her that the dressmaker had arrived, and would like to know what she could be getting on with until the return of Miss Cynthia from her luncheon-party.

Well aware that her employer would acidly resent any idleness on Miss Spennymoor's part while she was under her roof, Beulah climbed the stairs again, this time to Cynthia's bedroom. This apartment, which was at the back of the house, on the second floor, was a triumph of the decorator's art, and might well have been called a Symphony in Satin. Satin, of a ravis.h.i.+ng shade of peach, covered the window, all the chairs, the kidney-shaped dressing-table, and had even been used for the padded head and foot boards of the bed. Several rather grubby dolls were propped up in dejected att.i.tudes on various pieces of furniture, one being used to cover the pinkenamel telephone by the bed. The room was in its usual state of disorder, the combined efforts of one personal maid and two housemaids being insufficient to keep pace with Cynthia's habit of having discarded clothing on the floor, and littering the dressing-table with powder, haircombings, and dirty face-tissues. According this uninviting table no more than one disgusted glance, Beulah pulled open a drawer in a large chest, and extracted from it a tangle of stockings. It was safe to a.s.sume that they all stood in need of repair, so she bundled them under her arm, and mounted yet another flight of stairs to a small room set apart for Miss Spennymoor's visits. This boasted a chair, a table, a sewing-machine, an electric iron, two ironing-boards, and an antiquated gas-stove which made up in fumes and hissing what it lacked in heating-power.

Miss Spennymoor, who was known to her many patronesses as "a little woman who comes to me', was a small and spare spinster, who eked out a precarious livelihood by trotting cheerfully all over London to sew in other people's houses. She called herself a dressmaker, but this was a slight misnomer, only the most unexacting customers employing her in this role. She was an excellent needle-woman, but, as she herself was the first to acknowledge, an indifferent cutter. But her mending was faultless, and not merely could she alter garments to fit their wearers: she would never have dreamed of telling her clients that the task set her would take at least three weeks to perform. Above all - and this was a virtue much extolled by her patronesses - she charged very little for her services. "For," as she frequently pointed out, "I generally get my dinner, which has to be taken into account, and is a great saving. Of course, sometimes I'm unlucky, some of my ladies not having what I should call a proper meal midday, but one has to take the rough with the smooth, dear, and often there's a cup of tea in the morning, which I must say I do appreciate, not that it is a thing I would ever expect, if you understand me."

Miss Spennymoor's life might have been thought to have been as drab as it was lonely, but she would have been greatly surprised at such a mistaken judgment. Not only were the lives of her clients a constant source of interest to her, but her own life had not been without its romance. As a much younger woman, she had been a theatrical dresser, and although she had never risen in this profession above the dressing-room inhabited by the ladies of the chorus, this period in her career was one which she looked back upon with pride and pleasure, and her alb.u.m, with its faded portraits of forgotten beauties, was a solace that never failed her.

She received the stockings from Beulah with her usual cheerfulness, for she would have thought it quite as shocking as Mrs. Haddington that she should be idle. "Well, it wouldn't be right, would it?" she said. "For she pays me for my time, and it's only to be expected I should be working while I'm here. It was lucky you caught me this morning, Miss Birtley, for I was just about to pop on my things and go to one of my ladies that lives in Hampstead. Oh, dear, what a nasty hole in the toe of this lovely stocking! More like a potato than a hole: it does seem a shame, and quite new, I should say. I never think a darned stocking is the same, do you, dear? I'll lay it by until my regular day next week, for I daresay Miss Cynthia will come in, and I wouldn't like to leave it with the needle stuck in it, as I should have to, because it wouldn't hardly be reasonable to expect Miss Cynthia to wait. Very much surprised she would be if I was to suggest such a thing, which, of course, I shouldn't dream of doing, not for a moment! I'll just be getting on with this little hole in the heel. Is it a big job Mrs. Haddington wants me to do for Miss Cynthia?"

"I don't think so. Apparently, Andre sent home the frock she means to wear tonight with a crease across the back."

"Tut-tut, that's very bad!" said Miss Spennymoor, shaking her grey head. "A firm like that, too! Really, one would hardly credit it, but since the War I don't know how it is but no one seems to care how they do their work as long as they're paid for it. And what they charge! Is it a grand party tonight, dear?"

"Much as usual, I think," Beulah replied, perching on the edge of the table, and lighting a cigarette. "No good offering you one of these, is it?"

"No, dear, thank you. I don't know how it is, but I never seemed to take to it. It isn't my scruples, because I'm very broad-minded, although I'm sure my poor old father would practically have turned me out of the house if he'd have seen me smoking. He was very particular, was my father. He wouldn't have what you might call a risky story told, not in his hearing he wouldn't; and the way he took on when short skirts first came in you wouldn't believe. Yes, he was a very good man, except for the drink, and there I'm bound to say he was a wee bit of a trial to my mother, because as sure as fate she'd have to go and look for him in the public houses as soon as ever he got his wages, and often he wasn't at all willing to go home with her, not at all. But I often say it takes all sorts to make a world, and he was very highly respected, on account of his principles. Is it a dance tonight, dear?"

"No, just a Bridge-party."

"I'm bound to say I've never played Bridge, though I used to be very fond of a rubber of whist. I daresay there will be a lot of celebrities?" Miss Spennymoor said hopefully.

"Yes, quite a lot," said Beulah, knowing that the little dressmaker used this term to describe any t.i.tled person. She perceived that more was expected of her, and added: "Lady Floddan - do you know her?"

Miss Spennymoor shook her head. "I don't think she ever got her name in the papers, dear," she said simply.

Realising that she had failed to give satisfaction, Beulah tried again. "Well - Sir Roderick Vickerstown!"

"Now him I do know!" said Miss Spennymoor, pleased. "He was at the races, though which races I don't precisely remember, not at the moment, with the Marquis of Chetwynd and Lady Caroline Ramsbury, smoking a cigar."

"It sounds very probable. Lady Nest Poulton," offered Beulah.

"Ah, now, what a lovely girl she was!" sighed Miss Spennymoor. "She used to be in all the papers. One of the Season's debutantes; that was before she was one of the Leaders of the Younger Set, of course. Sweetly pretty, and such dresses! I remember when she got married she had a wedding-dress of cloth of gold, which created a regular sensation, because it was quite an innovation, as they say, at that time. Anyone else?"

"I don't think so. Except Lord Guisborough."

"Yes, I thought he'd be coming, for I hear he's very sweet on Miss Cynthia, but he's not what I would call a celebrity, dear, if you know what I mean. You see, I knew his mother - oh, ever so well I knew her!"

Since this was by no means the first time Beulah had been the recipient of this confidence, her reply was a trifle nuchaniral. "Really?"

"First line," said Miss Spennymoor cryptically. "Oh, she was a one! Daring! You wouldn't believe! Never till my dying day shall I forget the night she went off to some party with no more money in her bag than would pay for her taxi-fare (for keep twopence together she could not!) and the dress she wore as one of the Guests at the Grand Duke's Reception. Now, what was the name of that show? It'll come back to me. Of course, I should have got into trouble if it had ever been found out, not that I knew anything about it, for she did it when my back was turned, I need hardly say. What a lad! All the other girls used to laugh at her for taking up with Hilary Guisborough the way she did. Hilary! Well, I couldn't help laughing myself: what a name for anyone to have! The funny thing was she was the last girl you'd have thought would have been so soft, but there it was, and, as I've often said, he who laughs last laughs best, for he married her. No one ever thought he would, but he said he wasn't going to have people calling his kids b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, if you'll pardon the expression, which shows that he was a real gentleman, doesn't it? Not that it did her much good, because what must that Hilary of hers go and do but catch cold and die of a pneumonia when the twins were no more than six years old, if as much. Not that he was ever much use, reely, in spite of his grand relations, but half a loaf is better than no bread, when all's said and done, and there she was, left with two children on her hands, and nothing but a lot of bills to pay. Still, she kept up her spirits, and always enjoyed a joke. I sometimes think what a laugh she'd have if she knew her Lance had come into the t.i.tle!"

She indulged in a little laughter herself at this reflection, but her mirth was cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Haddington, who walked into the room, raising her eyebrows at her secretary, and saying: "So this is where you are!"

"Do you want me, Mrs. Haddington?" asked Beulah.

"Kindly go downstairs and see that the markers are all ready, and the pencils properly sharpened. Miss Spennymoor, please come to my daughter's room! I should have thought you could both have found something better to do than to sit gossiping here."

"Yes, Mrs. Haddington!" said Miss Spennymoor meekly. "Not but what it was quite my fault, and not at all Miss Birtley's, which it is only right I should say, because I was telling her how I used to know Lord Guisborough's poor mother, and one thing leading to another -"

"Lord Guisborough's mother?" repeated Mrs. Haddington. "Indeed!"

This icy interjection not unnaturally covered the little dressmaker with confusion. She scuffled her thimble and her scissors into her work-bag, and picked it up, saying in a crushed voice: "Quite ready now, Mrs. Haddington!"

"Then please come downstairs!" said Mrs. Haddington.