As Mrs Swann was being led like a sheep out of the hall into an apartment on the right, which the servant styled the breakfast-room, another door opened, further up the hall, and Mrs Clayton Vernon appeared.  Magnificent though Mrs Swann was, the ample Mrs Clayton Vernon, discreetly decolletee, was even more magnificent.  Dressed as she meant to show herself at the concert, Mrs Clayton Vernon made a resplendent figure worthy to be the cousin of the leader of the orchestra—­and worthy even to take the place of the missing Countess of Chell.  Mrs Clayton Vernon had a lorgnon at the end of a shaft of tortoise-shell; otherwise, a pair of eye-glasses on a stick.  She had the habit of the lorgnon; the lorgnon seldom left her, and whenever she was in any doubt or difficulty she would raise the lorgnon to her eyes and stare patronizingly.  It was a gesture tremendously effective.  She employed it now on Mrs Swann, as who should say, “Who is this insignificant and scarcely visible creature that has got into my noble hall?” Mrs Swann stopped, struck into immobility by the basilisk glance.  A courageous and even a defiant woman, Mrs Swann was taken aback.  She could not possibly tell Mrs Clayton Vernon that she was the bearer of hot potatoes to her son.  She scarcely knew Mrs Clayton Vernon, had only met her once at a bazaar!  With a convulsive unconscious movement her right hand clenched nervously within her muff and crushed the rich mealy potato it held until the flesh of the potato was forced between the fingers of her glove.  A horrible sticky mess!  That is the worst of a high-class potato, cooked, as the Five Towns phrase it, “in its jacket.”  It will burst on the least provocation.  There stood Mrs Swann, her right hand glued up with escaped potato, in the sober grandeur of Mrs Clayton Vernon’s hall, and Mrs Clayton Vernon bearing down upon her like a Dreadnought.

Steam actually began to emerge from her muff.

“Ah!” said Mrs Clayton Vernon, inspecting Mrs Swann.  “It’s Mrs Swann!  How do you do, Mrs Swann?”

She seemed politely astonished, as well she might be.  By a happy chance she did not perceive the wisp of steam.  She was not looking for steam.  People do not expect steam from the interior of a visitor’s muff.

“Oh!” said Mrs Swann, who was really in a pitiable state.  “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs Clayton Vernon.  But I want to speak to Gilbert for one moment.”

She then saw that Mrs Clayton Vernon’s hand was graciously extended.  She could not take it with her right hand, which was fully engaged with the extremely heated sultriness of the ruined potato.  She could not refuse it, or ignore it.  She therefore offered her left hand, which Mrs Clayton Vernon pressed with a well-bred pretence that people always offered her their left hands.

“Nothing wrong, I do hope!” said she, gravely.

“Oh no,” said Mrs Swann.  “Only just a little matter which had been forgotten.  Only half a minute.  I must hurry off at once as I have to meet my husband.  If I could just see Gilbert—­”