"I want you to drive with me this afternoon," said Mrs. Fielden, when I with the others was saying good-bye. I think she generally singles somebody out for a drive or a long talk, or to take her to a picture-gallery after lunch, and it is done in a way that makes the one thus singled out feel foolishly elated and flattered.
"I think we are going to drive down to Richmond and see some trees and grass, and behave in a rural sort of way this afternoon," she announced as she seated herself in the carriage.
"And what about all your engagements for this afternoon?" I asked. "And the Red Book, and the visiting-list, and the shopping-list, and the visiting-cards, which I see with you?"
"I never keep engagements," said Mrs. Fielden; "and every one knows my memory is so bad that they always forgive me. Some one gave me a little notebook the other day, with my initials in silver upon it—I can't remember who it was—and I put down in it all the tarsome things I ought to do, and then I lost the little pocket-book."
"If I ever find it," I said, "I shall bring it to you, and read out all your tarsome engagements to you."
"I didn't say 'tarsome,'" said Mrs. Fielden.
"I suppose you are whirling through the London season," I said presently; "and going everywhere, and having your frocks chronicled in the magazines, and going to a great many parties?"
"No," said Mrs. Fielden; "I have been down at Stanby."
"I wish," I remarked, "that you did not always give one unexpected replies. Why have you been down at Stanby? You didn't say anything about it when I saw you last night."
"Do you know old Miss Lydia Blind?" said Mrs. Fielden. "She is ill, and I got rather a pathetic letter from her, so I went down to Stanby to look after her."