A ring was heard to proceed from the front-door bell. Mrs. Lascelles betrayed anxiety.
“I trust,” said she, “our small Cerberus will prove equal to a frontal attack by the Hobson family.”
“She will, unquestionably,” said Jim, with an air of reassurance.
“It would be a great disappointment if she didn’t,” said Cheriton, “if one may venture to express a purely personal emotion.”
“Why, Lord Cheriton?” said Jim’s mother. Her tone was a natural blend of surprise and interest.
“A lifelong habit of minute observation,” said Cheriton, “emboldens one to think that she would prove equal to anything.”
Before Cheriton could suffer rebuke for holding an opinion upon such a subject, the little maid-of-all-work announced—
“Lady Charlotte Greg, Miss Champneys, Miss Laetitia Champneys.”
The space of the small back sitting-room was sensibly diminished by the entrance of three tall bony women, each equally austere of feature and ponderous of manner. Each was veiled and habited in black with white facings; and although their boots were not elastic-sided, it is difficult to advance any adequate reason for their not being so fashioned.
Miss Champneys, whose manner was decidedly impressive, introduced to Jim’s mother Lady Charlotte Greg, her oldest friend, who was staying with them at The Laurels for the purpose of opening the sale of work at Saint Agatha’s. Lady Charlotte Greg, the daughter of a successful politician and the wife of an evangelical bishop, conveyed the right degree of distance in her greeting. And after all, when you come to think of it, the distance is very great between a tiny back sitting-room at Balham and the Palace at Marchester.