"Miladi is awake, Mademoiselle," said Adèle, coming into the room.
The canaries that lived in the domed conservatory at the back of the drawing-room began to sing. The depression of the long silence was broken.
Mary ran up the cheerful gas-lit stairs to her grandmother.
Lady Flower had tried to neutralize the fretwork of age by excess of lace. She was still ivory; but the ivory was scratched, here and there even badly cracked. The texture of lace seemed more likely than any other to distract the attention of the observer, to confuse him by its infinite reticulation and thus provide an illusive calendry for that wrinkled countenance of hers.
"Well, dear," she began at once, sitting up among the pillows when Mary came into the room. "I slept much better than I expected after those grated chestnuts we had for your birthday lunch. I have an impression of dreaming a good deal, but I've forgotten what about. So much the better, for there is nobody so irritating as a raconteur des rêves."
Mary had been half inclined to tell Lady Flower about her own dreams by the window; but she was deterred by this remark, and perhaps in any case she would have been too much afraid of the old lady's cynical toleration to expose those fleeting and intangible shades of romantic love to her sparrowy eyes and pecks.
"I'm glad you feel rested," she said.
"Thank you, my dear."
They were always very courteous to each other, these two, or rather Lady Flower was always very courteous to her granddaughter. Mary was dutiful; and Lady Flower accepted any hint of affection, any display of sympathy or consideration, as the fruit of a good upbringing. She had no qualms about the younger generation. In the estimation of Lady Flower young people existed to show respect and do their duty toward their elders. Youth and labor at this period were still in bondage.