She held a court of elderly women; ladies in waiting (for favours) attended her, flattered her, and sung her praises,—particularly in her own presence. These, she rewarded with dinners, presents, drives, her cast-off gowns, and her confidence. They had all expressed deep sympathy over the impending invasion of this girl; for it was no secret that "dearest Arabella did not care for young people." Intensely jealous of each other's influence, they combined in a solid phalanx, against an intrusive outsider.
Two of Mrs. Jenkins' chief friends were sitting with her one afternoon late in June. One had presented flowers, the other had propped her up with cushions, and brought her a footstool—almost as if she was recovering from one of her notable heart attacks. In reality, she was awaiting the arrival of Miss Nancy Travers,—and Miss Nancy Travers was late!
Mrs. Taylor, chief counsellor, and parasite, was a widow with a masculine cast of face, a dark red complexion, and beetling black brows; being tall and massive, Mrs. Jenkins' dresses required a vast amount of letting out and letting down, before she could assume them. She lived in a little flat in Earl's Court, and was dependent on dearest Arabella,—whom she had known as a girl, a fact which made her position as mistress of the robes impregnable,—for many an excellent meal, a serviceable cast-off costume, and her summer holidays. In return for these benefits, she offered continual incense in the shape of flattery, and much engrossing gossip—having a wide, and illegitimate knowledge of other people's affairs.
The other lady, Miss Dolling, was well and fashionably dressed—no genteel mendicant this! but she was unfortunately plain: a long nose, no chin, and fat flabby cheeks, largely discounted her string of valuable pearls, and French toilette. Bessie Dolling, the original wife selected for Laurence Travers, was as yet an unappropriated blessing: after twenty years, she still hoarded Laurence's photograph, hugged his memory, and firmly believed that if he had not been caught by an adventuress, he would have returned to claim her. This fiction was a sustaining consolation to the poor lady, did no one any harm, and need not be begrudged.
The three friends were grouped round the open window overlooking Queen's Gate; Galpin the butler had just removed the tea-things, and departed with the tea-cloth neatly tucked under his arm. He was a stout, clean-shaven man, with a considerable meridian, and a stern mouth. N.B.—His mistress was not a little afraid of him.
"I wonder what she will be like?" said Miss Dolling suddenly.
"My dear Bessie, that is the tenth time you have made the same remark," peevishly protested Mrs. Taylor. "We shall know in a few minutes."
"She will be exactly like her father," announced Mrs. Jenkins as if stating a fact; "a dark Travers, with black hair, and well-cut features, especially the Travers' nose," and as she spoke, she put up her hand and stroked her own organ, which was short, thick, and first cousin to a nez retroussé.
"I shall send her to her room almost at once. These interviews are so dreadfully trying for my poor heart."
"Yes, dear friend," purred Mrs. Taylor, "and we will take care, that she does not talk to you about the panther, or how her father was killed."