“Her ladyship” was the last and best of Constance’s servants, a really excellent creature of thirty, who had known misfortune, and who must assuredly have been sent to Constance by the old watchful Providence. They “got on together” nearly perfectly. Her name was Mary. After ten years of turmoil, Constance in the matter of servants was now at rest.
“Yes,” said Constance. “She’s named it to me several times—about having her photograph taken, and last week I let her go. I told you, didn’t I? I always consider her in every way, all her little fancies and everything. And the copies came today. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything. You may be sure she’ll take a look into the album next time she cleans the room.”
Constance and Lily exchanged a glance agreeing that Constance had affably stretched a point in deciding to put the photograph of a servant between the same covers with photographs of her family and friends. It was doubtful whether such a thing had ever been done before.
One photograph usually leads to another, and one photograph album to another photograph album.
“Pass me that album on the second shelf of the Canterbury; my dear,” said Constance.
Lily rose vivaciously, as though to see the album on the second shelf of the Canterbury had been the ambition of her life.
They sat side by side at the table, Lily turning over the pages. Constance, for all her vast bulk, continually made little nervous movements. Occasionally she would sniff and occasionally a mysterious noise would occur in her chest; she always pretended that this noise was a cough, and would support the pretence by emitting a real cough immediately after it.
“Why!” exclaimed Lily. “Have I seen that before?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” said Constance. “Have you?”
It was a photograph of Sophia taken a few years previously by “a very nice gentleman,” whose acquaintance the sisters had made during a holiday at Harrogate. It portrayed Sophia on a knoll, fronting the weather.
“It’s Mrs. Scales to the life—I can see that,” said Lily.
“Yes,” said Constance. “Whenever there was a wind she always stood like that, and took long deep breaths of it.”
This recollection of one of Sophia’s habits recalled the whole woman to Constance’s memory, and drew a picture of her character for the girl who had scarcely known her.
“It’s not like ordinary photographs. There’s something special about it,” said Lily, enthusiastically. “I don’t think I ever saw a photograph like that.”
“I’ve got another copy of it in my bedroom,” said Constance. “I’ll give you this one.”
“Oh, Mrs. Povey! I couldn’t think—!”
“Yes, yes!” said Constance, removing the photograph from the page.
“Oh, thank you!” said Lily.
“And that reminds me,” said Constance, getting up with great difficulty from her chair.
“Can I find anything for you?” Lily asked.
“No, no!” said Constance, leaving the room.
She returned in a moment with her jewel-box, a receptacle of ebony with ivory ornamentations.
“I’ve always meant to give you this,” said Constance, taking from the box a fine cameo brooch. “I don’t seem to fancy wearing it myself. And I should like to see you wearing it. It was mother’s. I believe they’re coming into fashion again. I don’t see why you shouldn’t wear it while you’re in mourning. They aren’t half so strict now about mourning as they used to be.”
“Truly!” murmured Lily, ecstatically. They kissed. Constance seemed to breathe out benevolence, as with trembling hands she pinned the brooch at Lily’s neck. She lavished the warm treasure of her heart on Lily, whom she regarded as an almost perfect girl, and who had become the idol of her latter years.
“What a magnificent old watch!” said Lily, as they delved together in the lower recesses of the box. “And the chain to it!”
“That was father’s,” said Constance. “He always used to swear by it. When it didn’t agree with the Town Hall, he used to say: ‘Then th’ Town Hall’s wrong.’ And it’s curious, the Town Hall was wrong. You know the Town Hall clock has never been a good timekeeper. I’ve been thinking of giving that watch and chain to Dick.”
“Have you?” said Lily.
“Yes. It’s just as good as it was when father wore it. My husband never would wear it. He preferred his own. He had little fancies like that. And Cyril takes after his father.” She spoke in her “dry” tone. “I’ve almost decided to give it to Dick—that is, if he behaves himself. Is he still on with this ballooning?”
Lily smiled guiltily: “Oh yes!”
“Well,” said Constance, “I never heard the like! If he’s been up and come down safely, that ought to be enough for him. I wonder you let him do it, my dear.”
“But how can I stop him? I’ve no control over him.”
“But do you mean to say that he’d still do it if you told him seriously you didn’t want him to?”
“Yes,” said Lily; and added: “So I shan’t tell him.”
Constance nodded her head, musing over the secret nature of men. She remembered too well the cruel obstinacy of Samuel, who had nevertheless loved her. And Dick Povey was a thousand times more bizarre than Samuel. She saw him vividly, a little boy, whizzing down King Street on a boneshaker, and his cap flying off. Afterwards it had been motorcars! Now it was balloons! She sighed. She was struck by the profound instinctive wisdom just enunciated by the girl.
“Well,” she said, “I shall see. I’ve not made up my mind yet. What’s the young man doing this afternoon, by the way?”
“He’s gone to Birmingham to try to sell two motor-lorries. He won’t be back home till late. He’s coming over here tomorrow.”
It was an excellent illustration of Dick Povey’s methods that at this very moment Lily heard in the Square the sound of a motorcar, which happened to be Dick’s car. She sprang up to look.
“Why!” she cried, flushing. “Here he is now!”
“Bless us, bless us!” muttered Constance, closing the box.
When Dick, having left his car in King Street, limped tempestuously into
