They had done all that could be done in the way of getting into society; they had neglected no means, shunned no humiliation, spared no expense, refused no subscription, avoided no insult which could possibly, directly or indirectly, have helped them to enter its charmed circle, and yet nothing had succeeded. Nobody came, nobody at least out of that mystic and magic sphere into which they pined and slaved to force or to insinuate themselves; not one of those, the dust of whose feet they were ready to kiss, would come up the staircase under the smiling gaze of Clodion’s young falconer.
But on this second day of the month of March, when the clocks showed five of the afternoon, there was a slight movement perceptible in the rooms of which the suite was visible from the door of the boudoir. The groom of the chambers, a slender, solemn, erect personage, by name Winter, came forward with a shade of genuine respect for the first time shown in his expression and demeanor.
“Lady Kenilworth asks if you receive, madam?”
“Why, lord, man! ain’t I in o’ purpose?” said his mistress, in her agitation and surprise reverting to her natural vernacular; whilst she rose in vast excitement and unspeakable trepidation, and tumbled against a stool in her nervousness.
“I was sure that I should find you at home, so I followed on the heels of your man,” said a sweet, silvery, impertinent voice, as the fair young mother of Jack and Boo entered the boudoir, looking at everything about her in a bird-like way, and with an eye-glass which she did not want lifted to the bridge of her small and delicate nose.
“So kind—so kind—so honored,” murmured Mrs. Massarene with bewilderment and enthusiasm, her pale, flaccid cheeks warm with pleasure, and her voice tremulous with timidity.
“Not at all,” murmured Lady Kenilworth absently and vaguely, occupied with her inspection of the objects round her. She seated herself on a low chair, and let her glance wander over the walls, the ceiling, the Meissen china, the Watteau ceiling, and her hostess’s gown.
“How’s your dear little children, ma’am?” said Mrs. Massarene humbly.
“Oh, they’re all right, thanks,” said their mother carelessly, her head thrown back as she gazed up at the Watteau. “It seems very well done,” she said at last. “Who did it for you? The Bond Street people?”
“Did what?” said her hostess falteringly, drawing in her breath with a sudden little gasp to prevent herself from saying “my lady.”