She was an ideal old lady, grande dame in every detail. She had been painted by Hayter and sketched by D'Orsay. The semi-transparent hand, which lay on the arm of her chair, had been modelled by sculptors of renown, had been carved in marble and in ivory, when she was the beautiful Mary Rannock.
She was nearly eighty, and had been a widow for a quarter of a century, drifting placidly down the river of time, with very few pleasures and not many friends, having outlived most of them, and with only one trouble, the wrong-doing of the son she adored.
She had hoped so much for him, had burnt with ambition for him, had destined him for a high place in the world; and he had forfeited every friendship, missed every chance, disappointed every hope. And she loved him still, better than she loved her daughter and her daughter's children; better, perhaps, because his life had been an ignominious failure; better because of that boundless compassion which she felt for his ill-fortune.
"My poor Dick has never had any luck," she would say excusingly.
She received Mr. Faunce with pathetic eagerness, like a drowning man clutching at the first spar that floats within his reach.
"Pray, be seated," she said graciously. And then, turning to her son-in-law, she said, "I should like to have my talk with Mr. Faunce quite alone, Harry," at which Major Towgood bounded from his chair with a snort of vexation.
"But surely, my dear mother, since I know all the circumstances of the case, and as a man of the world, I can be of some use."
"Not while I am talking to Mr. Faunce, Harry. I want to keep my poor old head calm and cool."
"Well, dear, you are the best judge, but really——"
"Dear Harry, it will be so kind of you to leave us alone."