“Certainly,” said Mrs Clayton Vernon.  “Do come into the breakfast-room, will you?  We’ve just finished dinner.  We had it very early, of course, for the concert.  Mr Millwain—­my cousin—­hates to be hurried.  Maria, be good enough to ask Mr Swann to come here.  Tell him that his mother wishes to speak to him.”

In the breakfast-room Mrs Swann was invited, nay commanded by Mrs Clayton Vernon, to loosen her mantle.  But she could not loosen her mantle.  She could do nothing.  In clutching the potato to prevent bits of it from falling out of the muff, she of course effected the precise opposite of her purpose, and bits of the luscious and perfect potato began to descend the front of her mantle.  The clock struck seven, and ages elapsed, during which Mrs Swann could not think of anything whatever to say, but the finger of the clock somehow stuck motionless at seven, though the pendulum plainly wagged.

“I’m not too warm,” she said at length, feebly but obstinately resisting Mrs Clayton Vernon’s command.  This, to speak bluntly, was an untruth.  She was too warm.

“Are you sure that nothing is the matter?” urged Mrs Clayton Vernon, justifiably alarmed by the expression of her visitor’s features.  “I beg you to confide in me if—­”

“Not at all,” said Mrs Swann, trying to laugh.  “I’m only sorry to disturb you.  I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“What on earth is that?” cried Mrs Clayton Vernon.

The other potato, escaping Mrs Swann’s vigilance, had run out of the muff and come to the carpet with a dull thud.  It rolled half under Mrs Swann’s dress.  Almost hysterically she put her foot on it, thus making pulp of the second potato.

“What?” she inquired innocently.

“Didn’t you hear anything?  I trust it isn’t a mouse!  We have had them once.”

Mrs Clayton Vernon thought how brave Mrs Swann was, not to be frightened by the word “mouse.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Mrs Swann.  Another untruth.

“If you aren’t too warm, won’t you come a little nearer the fire?”

But not for a thousand pounds would Mrs Swann have exposed the mush of potato on the carpet under her feet.  She could not conceive in what ignominy the dreadful affair would end, but she was the kind of woman that nails her colours to the mast.

“Dear me!” Mrs Clayton Vernon murmured.  “How delicious those potatoes do smell!  I can smell them all over the house.”

This was the most staggering remark that Mrs Swann had ever heard.

“Potatoes? very weakly.

“Yes,” said Mrs Clayton Vernon, smiling.  “I must tell you that Mr Millwain is very nervous about getting his hands cold in driving to Hanbridge.  And he has asked me to have hot potatoes prepared.  Isn’t it amusing?  It seems hot potatoes are constantly used for this purpose in winter by the pupils of the Royal College of Music, and even by the professors.  My cousin says that even a slight chilliness of the hands interferes with his playing.  So I am having potatoes done for your son too.  A delightful boy he is!”