Lady Betty was in high good-humour in the drawing-room. A dainty tea-service had been set out—delicate cups with no handles—and a silver tea-pot and cream-jug; and Lord Basingstoke had taken up his favourite lounging attitude by the fire.
"What have you done with Sir Maxwell Danby, child?"
"He left me at the door."
"Where are your manners, not to invite him to come in?" Lady Betty said sharply. "I shall never teach you the proper behaviour, I believe."
"You might spare me before witnesses," Griselda said angrily. "If, indeed, I offend you, I will not inflict my company any longer on you."
Then, with a dignified curtsey, Griselda swept out of the room. It was terribly irritating to catch the sound of Lady Betty's laugh as she did so, and the words, "A very tragedy queen—a real stage 'curtshey.'"
Griselda hastened to her room, where she found Graves getting her change of toilette ready for the evening, and kindling a fire in the small grate.
"Oh dear, Graves! what a weariful world it is! Graves, tell me—now, do tell me—something about my mother."
"I have told you all I know many a time, my dearie. She was a fair flower, nipped and withered by the breath of this same world you speak of. May God preserve you in it!"
Griselda had thrown herself into a chair, and laid aside her cloak and hood. All her beautiful hair fell over her shoulders like rippling waves of gold.