“Ah, that is my daughter-in-law.”
Lady Kellynch pointed it out to Lady Gertrude.
“This is pretty—what you can see of it.”
“Here she is herself.”
“Mrs. Pickering—Mrs. Percy Kellynch.”
The hostess gave Bertha an imploring look. She took in the situation at a glance and drew Mrs. Pickering a little aside, where Lady Gertrude could not listen to her piercing Cockney accent.
Clifford joined the group.
If Lady Kellynch had been, almost against her will, reminded by something in her visitor of a pantomime, Bertha saw far more. She was convinced at once that the rich eldest son of Pickering, the Jam King, had been dazzled and carried away, some fourteen years ago, and bestowed his enormous fortune and himself, probably against his family’s wish, on a little provincial chorus girl. Her cheery determination to get on, and an evident sense of humour, made Bertha like her, in spite of her snobbishness and her manner. She was a change, at least, to meet here, and when Mrs. Pickering produced her card, which she did to everyone to whom she spoke, Bertha promised to call and asked her also. Of course one would have to be a shade careful whom one asked to meet her, but probably it would be a jolly house to go to. And nowadays! Still, Bertha was a little surprised that Clifford was so infatuated with the mother of his friend. She forgot that at twelve years old one is not fastidious; the taste is crude. If he admired Bertha’s fair hair, he thought Mrs. Pickering’s brilliant gold curls still prettier. Besides, Mrs. Pickering petted and made much of him, and was very kind.
She stayed much too long for a first visit, and as she went of course produced another card, saying to the muffled lady: