It was still quite early in the afternoon when she reached Berkeley Square. In spite of her assumed cheerfulness, her courage was at a low ebb. The imposing appearance of the houses awed her; she knocked timidly, and the butler who opened the door looked like a dignified and venerable clergyman.
He received her affably, as though she were an expected guest. Miss Harford was out driving, but would be back shortly; his mistress, Mrs. Mainwaring, had desired that Miss Ward should be shown into the drawing-room.
Waveney never felt so small and insignificant in her life. For the first time she was conscious of a wish to be tall, as she followed him down the corridor. Then the thickness of the carpets distracted her, and the cabinets of china. Then a door was opened, and she heard her name announced, and a soft little voice said, "Certainly, Druce. Show the young lady in."
For one moment Waveney hesitated. The owner of the voice seemed invisible. It was a beautiful room, grander than anything that the girl had ever seen, and it was full of sunshine and the scent of flowers. Tall palms were everywhere, and china pots with wonderful Japanese chrysanthemums, and there were screens and standard lamps, and a curtained archway leading to an inner room; and here Waveney at last discovered a tiny old lady, half buried in an immense easy chair. She was the prettiest old lady in the world, but as diminutive as a fairy; her cheeks were as pink as Mollie's; and she had beautiful silvery curls under her lace cap. A mass of white, fleecy knitting lay on her satin lap, and the small, wrinkled fingers were loaded with costly brilliants.
"Fairy Magnificent," Waveney named her when she was retailing the account of her visit. She looked up with a pleasant smile, and pointed to a chair. "You have called to see my niece, Miss Harford—oh yes, she is expecting you, but she was obliged to pay a business visit; my nieces are busy women, Miss Ward—perhaps you will find that out for yourself some day." Waveney began to feel less shy; she looked round the room that she might describe it properly to Mollie. How Mollie revelled in that description afterwards; it was like a page in a story book—flowers and statues and palms, and that beautiful old lady in her satin gown.
Fairy Magnificent was evidently fond of talking, for she rippled on, in her soft voice, like a little purling brook, knitting all the time.
"Oh, we all have our gifts, my dear, but I am afraid in my day girls were terribly worldly; it was not the fashion to cultivate philanthropy or altruism, as they call it. I recollect a young man asking one of my nieces if they went in for 'slumming.' I wonder what we should have thought of such a question when I was young."
"Does Miss Harford do that sort of thing?" asked Waveney, with something of her old animation. She was such a dear little old lady—like a piece of Dresden china.
"Oh, not slumming exactly—they are too sensible to take up every passing craze; but they do an immense deal of good. They have a Home for governesses and broken-down workers very near them at Erpingham, and they have a room in the garden where they do all sorts of things. They have Thursday evenings for shop-girls, regular social evenings—tea, and music, and talk; and the girls are as nicely behaved as possible."
"Oh, what a grand idea!" and Waveney's eyes began to gleam and sparkle. "I have always been so sorry for shop-girls. I think they have such a hard, pushing sort of life. The poor things are often so tired, but they have to look pleasant all the same."