It was at the instant she pushed open Mrs Clayton Vernon’s long and heavy garden gate, and crunched in the frosty darkness up the short winding drive, that the notion of the peculiarity of her errand first presented itself to her.  Mrs Clayton Vernon was a relatively great lady, living in a relatively great house; one of the few exalted or peculiar ones who did not dine in the middle of the day like other folk.  Mrs Clayton Vernon had the grand manner.  Mrs Clayton Vernon instinctively and successfully patronized everybody.  Mrs Clayton Vernon was a personage with whom people did not joke.  And lo!  Mrs Swann was about to invade her courtly and luxurious house, uninvited, unauthorized, with a couple of hot potatoes in her muff.  What would Mrs Clayton Vernon think of hot potatoes in a muff?  Of course, the Swanns were “as good as anybody.”  The Swanns knelt before nobody.  The Swanns were of the cream of the town, combining commerce with art, and why should not Mrs Swann take practical measures to keep her son’s hands warm in Mrs Clayton Vernon’s cold carriage?  Still, there was only one Mrs Clayton Vernon in Bursley, and it was impossible to deny that she inspired awe, even in the independent soul of Mrs Swann.

Mrs Swann rang the bell, reassuring herself.  The next instant an electric light miraculously came into existence outside the door, illuminating her from head to foot.  This startled her.  But she said to herself that it must be the latest dodge, and that, at any rate, it was a very good dodge, and she began again the process of reassuring herself.  The door opened, and a prim creature stiffly starched stood before Mrs Swann.  “My word!” reflected Mrs Swann, “she must cost her mistress a pretty penny for getting up aprons!” And she said aloud curtly: 

“Will you please tell Mr Gilbert Swann that someone wants to speak to him a minute at the door?”

“Yes,” said the servant, with pert civility.  “Will you please step in?”

She had not meant to step in.  She had decidedly meant not to step in, for she had no wish to encounter Mrs Clayton Vernon; indeed, the reverse.  But she immediately perceived that in asking to speak to a guest at the door she had socially erred.  At Mrs Clayton Vernon’s refined people did not speak to refined people at the door.  So she stepped in, and the door was closed, prisoning her and her potatoes in the imposing hall.

“I only want to see Mr Gilbert Swann,” she insisted.

“Yes,” said the servant.  “Will you please step into the breakfast-room?  There’s no one there.  I will tell Mr Swann.”

VI