Her pictures were admired.

“Your son painted this water-colour, did he not, Mrs. Maldon?”

“Yes, my son Athelstan.”

“How gifted he must have been!”

“Yes, the best judges say he showed very remarkable promise.  It’s fading, I fear.  I ought to cover it up, but somehow I can’t fancy covering it up—­”

The hand that had so remarkably promised had lain mouldering for a quarter of a century.  Mrs. Maldon sometimes saw it, fleshless, on a cage-like skeleton in the dark grave.  The next moment she would see herself tending its chilblains.

And if she was not peculiar, neither was she waning.  No!  Seventy-two—­but not truly old!  How could she be truly old when she could see, hear, walk a mile without stopping, eat anything whatever, and dress herself unaided?  And that hair of hers!  Often she was still a young wife, or a young widow.  She was not preparing for death; she had prepared for death in the seventies.  She expected to live on in calm satisfaction through indefinite decades.  She savoured life pleasantly, for its daily security was impregnable.  She had forgotten grief.

When she looked up at Rachel and benevolently nodded to her, she saw a girl of line character, absolutely trustworthy, very devoted, very industrious, very capable, intelligent, cheerful—­in fact, a splendid girl, a girl to be enthusiastic about!  But such a mere girl!  A girl with so much to learn!  So pathetically young and inexperienced and positive and sure of herself!  The looseness of her limbs, the unconscious abrupt freedom of her gestures, the waviness of her auburn hair, the candour of her glance, the warmth of her indignation against injustice and dishonesty, the capricious and sensitive flowings of blood to her smooth cheeks, the ridiculous wise compressings of her lips, the rise and fall of her rich and innocent bosom—­these phenomena touched Mrs. Maldon and occasionally made her want to cry.

Thought she:  “I was never so young as that at twenty-two!  At twenty-two I had had Mary!” The possibility that in spite of having had Mary (who would now have been fifty, but for death) she had as a fact been approximately as young as that at twenty-two did not ever present itself to the waning and peculiar old lady.  She was glad that she, a mature and profoundly experienced woman, in full possession of all her faculties, was there to watch over the development of the lovable, affectionate, and impulsive child.

IV

“Oh!  Here’s the paper, Mrs. Maldon,” said Rachel, as, turning away to leave the room, she caught sight of the extra special edition of the Signal, which lay a pale green on the dark green of the Chesterfield.

Mrs. Maldon answered placidly—­

“When did you bring it in?  I never heard the boy come.  But my hearing’s not quite what it used to be, that’s true.  Open it for me, my dear.  I can’t stretch my arms as I used to.”