"Well, that's lucky for you," remarked the visitor. "I flush up a good deal. Beatrice never does. She takes after her father; he was wonderfully cool, poor man. Have you got a newspaper of any sort about, that you'd lend me, Mrs. Bertram?"
"Oh, certainly," answered Mrs. Bertram, in some astonishment. "Here is yesterday's Times."
"I'll make it into a fan, if you have no objection. Now, that's better. Dear, dear, what a nice room!"
Mrs. Bertram fidgetted on her chair. She wondered how many more times Mrs. Meadowsweet would descant on the elegancies of her drawing-room. She need not have feared. Whatever Mrs. Meadowsweet was she was honest; and at that very moment her eyes lighted on the felt which covered the floor. Mrs. Meadowsweet had never been trained in a school of art, but, as she said to herself, no one knew better what was what than she did; above all, no one knew better what was comme il faut in the matter of carpets. Meadowsweet, poor man, had been particular about his carpets. There were grades in carpets as in all other things, and felt, amongst these grades, ranked low, very low indeed. Kidderminster might be permitted in bedrooms, although Mrs. Meadowsweet would scorn to see it in any room in her house, but Brussels was surely the only correct carpet for people of medium means to cover their drawing-room floors with. The report that Mrs. Bertram's drawing-room wore a mantle of felt had reached Mrs. Meadowsweet's ears. She had emphatically declined to believe in any such calumny, and yet now her own eyes saw, her own good-humored, kind eyes, that wished to think well of all the world, rested on that peculiar greeny-brown felt, which surely must have come to its present nondescript hue by the aid of many suns. The whole room looked immediately almost sordid to the poor woman, and she felt no longer anxious for Beatrice to appreciate its beauties.
At that moment Clara appeared with the tea. Now, if there was a thing Mrs. Meadowsweet was particular about it was her tea; she revelled in her tea; she always bought it from some very particular and exclusive house in London. She saw that it was served strong and hot; she was particular to have it made with what she called the "first boil" of the water. Water that had boiled for five minutes made, in Mrs. Meadowsweet's opinion, contemptible tea. Then she liked it well sweetened, and flavored with very rich cream. Such a cup of tea, as she expressed it, set her up for the day. The felt carpet had given Mrs. Meadowsweet a kind of shock, but all her natural spirits revived when she saw the tea equipage. She approved of the exquisite eggshell china, and noted with satisfaction that the teapot was really silver.
"What a refreshment a cup of tea is!" exclaimed the good woman. "Nothing like it, as I dare say you know, Mrs. Bertram."
Mrs. Bertram smiled languidly, and raising the teapot, prepared to pour out a cup for her guest. She was startled by a noise, which sounded something like a shout, coming from the fat lady's lips.
"Did you speak?" she asked.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bertram, but don't—it's cruel."
"Don't do what?"