Lady Kellynch was very kind to these little dressmakers—she spoke of them as if they were minute to the point of being midgets or dwarfs—she was really rather the curse of their lives, and after a while they would have been glad to dispense with her custom. She wanted them to do impossibilities, such as making her look exactly as she did at Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee (the time when she was so much admired and had such a success), and yet making her look up-to-date now, without any of the horrid fast modern style.
When Clifford was at home things were considerably turned upside down, and when the time of his holidays drew to an end she was conscious of being relieved.
It was the first Thursday, and Lady Kellynch was at home. A day or two before Clifford had spent a day with Pickering and his mother. She had told him he might ask the boy to tea.
“Mother,” said Clifford, who had received a note, “Pickering can’t come to-day.”
“Oh, indeed—what a pity.”
She was really rather glad. Boys at an At Home were a bore and ate all the cake.
“Er—no—he can’t come. But, I say, you won’t mind, will you?—his mother’s coming.”
“His mother!” exclaimed Lady Kellynch, rather surprised.
“Er—yes—I asked her. I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind. She wants to know you.”
“Really? It’s very kind of her, I’m sure.”