"I am not old, Judith: you are older than I am."
"Quite so, and I wear ever so much better. You look twice your age."
Lady Charvington made a face. "You were always a disagreeable girl," she pouted, "I daresay I am growing no younger, but you need not tell me so. As to my looks, if you were as worried as I am, you would not look your best either. So I--who is that?" she inquired as George, ignorant that his mother had a visitor, tapped at the French window of the drawing-room.
"My son George," said Mrs. Walker, rising to admit him.
"Oh!" cried Lady Charvington vivaciously. "Lesbia's George."
"My son, Lady Charvington," said Mrs. Walker, introducing the pair. "George, this is an old friend of mine."
Lady Charvington looked at the splendidly handsome young man and secretly envied her hostess. Neither of her children was so good-looking, and moreover, what she always regretted, she had provided no heir to the title.
"So you are Lesbia's George," she said again, not offering her hand, but putting up her lorgnette. "Well, the girl has taste."
George coloured under her impertinent gaze and at the sudden mention of Lesbia. He no more expected Lady Charvington to mention the girl than he had expected she would arrive on the very day when her name had first been mentioned in the cottage--that is, her husband's name. "What do you know of Lesbia, Lady Charvington?" he asked, taking a chair.
She gave an artificial laugh. "Nothing very creditable."