“Well,” said Mr Swann, “we can’t do anything; anyway, we must hope for the best.”

“That’s all very well,” said Mrs Swann.  And it was.

Shortly afterwards, perfect in most details of her black silk, she left the bedroom, requesting her husband to be quick, as tea was ready.  And she came into the little dining-room where the youthful servant was poking up the fire.

“Jane,” she said, “put two medium-sized potatoes in the oven to bake.”

“Potatoes, mum?”

“Yes, potatoes,” said Mrs Swann, tartly.

It was an idea of pure genius that had suddenly struck her; the genius of common sense.

She somewhat hurried the tea; then rang.

“Jane,” she inquired, “are those potatoes ready?”

“Potatoes?” exclaimed Mr Swann.

“Yes, hot potatoes,” said Mrs Swann, tartly.  “I’m going to run up with them by car to Mrs Vernon’s.  I can slip them quietly over to Gil.  They keep your hands warm better than anything.  Don’t I remember when I was a child!  I shall leave Mrs Vernon’s immediately, of course, but perhaps you’d better give me my ticket and I will meet you at the hall.  Don’t you think it’s the best plan, John?”

“As you like,” said Mr Swann, with the force of habit.

He was supreme in most things, but in the practical details of their son’s life and comfort she was supreme.  Her decision in such matters had never been questioned.  Mr Swann had a profound belief in his wife as a uniquely capable and energetic woman.  He was tremendously loyal to her, and he sternly inculcated the same loyalty to her in Gilbert.

V

Just as the car had stopped at the end of the street for Gilbert and his violoncello, so—­more than an hour later—­it stopped for Mrs Swann and her hot potatoes.

They were hot potatoes—­nay, very hot potatoes—­of a medium size, because Mrs Swann’s recollections of youth had informed her that if a potato is too large one cannot get one’s fingers well around it, and if it is too small it cools somewhat rapidly.  She had taken two, not in the hope that Gilbert would be able to use two at once, for one cannot properly nurse either a baby or a ’cello with two hands full of potatoes, but rather to provide against accident.  Besides, the inventive boy might after all find a way of using both simultaneously, which would be all the better for his playing at the concert, and hence all the better for the success of the Musical Festival.

It never occurred to Mrs Swann that she was doing anything in the least unusual.  There she was, in her best boots, and her best dress, and her best hat, and her sealskin mantle (not easily to be surpassed in the town), and her muff to match (nearly), and concealed in the muff were the two very hot potatoes.  And it did not strike her that women of fashion like herself, wives of secretaries of flourishing companies,