“Philip’s mother—so delighted—hope you don’t object to potatoes—it’s Jane’s afternoon out.”
But no further communication was forthcoming from the Governing Classes all the way up the solid length of stair-carpet to Grandmamma’s withdrawing-room.
Mary preceded No. 88 Grosvenor Square, potato, bone-hafted knife, sacking-cloth apron and all, into the stately presence of the cap-with-lace-which-had-been-worn-by-Siddons.
“Lady Shelmerdine of Potterhanworth, Granny.”
The Bad Girl turned and fled; very nearly impaled herself on the bone-hafted knife by counting fourteen stairs instead of thirteen, and continuing her course headlong until she fell howling into the arms of Cook. But in Edward Bean’s goddaughter’s withdrawing-room it was no laughing matter, my lords and gentlemen, we feel bound to tell you that. And we are forced to agree, though very reluctantly, with what Grandmamma said privately to the Bad Girl afterwards, which was that she would be none the worse for a good whipping.
“Mrs. Cathcart, I presume?” said No. 88 Grosvenor Square, very bland and splendid, although the tones had no need to be so icy—they hadn’t, really.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the Lady Macbeth to John Peter Kendall, offering her venerable hand to the angle of 1851, the Exhibition Year. “Ah, yes, Lady Shelmerdine—delighted to make your acquaintance.”
What of the Braided Morning Coat, you ask, while all this was toward? Perspiring freely in every pore and leaning up against the chimney-piece, and looking rather gray about the gills.
Should it make a bolt, or should it stay and grapple with the music? The pusillanimity of the former course, tempting no doubt to a weak resolution, would involve death and damnation; but the heroism of the latter required all that could be mustered by the playing fields of Eton and Christ Church. But while the unhappy inhabitant of the Braided Morning Coat was surrendered to this problem, the stern, uncompromising eye of Mother decided the question.
“Phil-ipp!”