“You might be a hundred years old, Georgina,” she would angrily lament.

“I very soon shall be a hundred years old, Isabella, if I live as long as my grandmother did,” Miss Crewys would triumphantly reply.  “It is surprising to me that a woman who was never good-looking at the best of times, should cling to her youth as you do.”

“It is more surprising to me that you should let yourself go to rack and ruin, and never stretch out a hand to help yourself.”

“I am what God made me,” said the pious Georgina, “whereas you do everything but paint your face, Isabella; and I have little doubt but what you will come to that by the time you are eighty.”

But though they disputed hotly on occasion the sisters generally preserved a united front before the world, and only argued, since argue they must, in the most polite and affectionate terms.

The firelight shed its cheerful glow over the laden tea-table, and was reflected in the silver urn, and the crimson and gold and blue of the Crown Derby tea-set.  But the old ladies, though casting longing eyes in the direction of the teapot, religiously abstained from offering to touch it.

“No, John,” said Miss Crewys, in a tone of exemplary patience; “I have made it a rule never to take upon myself any of the duties of hospitality in my dear brother’s house, ever since he married,—­odd as it may seem, when we remember how he used once to sit at this very table in his little bib and tucker, whilst Isabella poured out his milk, and I cut his bread and butter.”

“We both make the rule, John,” said Lady Belstone, mournfully, “or, of course, as the elder sister, I should naturally pour out the tea in our dear Lady Mary’s absence.”

“Of course, of course,” said John Crewys.

“Forgive me, Isabella, but we have discussed this point before,” said Miss Crewys.  “Though I cannot deny, our cousin being, as he is, a lawyer, his opinion would carry weight.  But I think he will agree with me”—­John smiled—­“that when the elder daughter of a house marries, she forfeits her rights of seniority in that house, and the next sister succeeds to her place.”

“I should suppose that might be the case,” John, bowing politely in the direction of the widow.

“I never disputed the fact, Georgina.  It is, as our cousin says, self-evident,” said Lady Belstone, returning the bow.  “But I have always maintained, and always shall, that when the married sister comes back widowed to the home of her fathers, the privileges of birth are restored to her.”

Both sisters turned shrewd, expectant grey eyes upon their cousin.

“It is—­it is rather a nice point,” said John Crewys, as gravely as he could.

He welcomed thankfully the timely interruption of an opening door and the entrance of Canon Birch and the doctor.

At the same moment, from the archway which supported the great oak staircase, the butler entered, carrying lights.