“Mrs. Deacon’s a goose!  You know she is, mother,—­you often say so.  I met him first, of course, at the Hunt Ball.  And you saw him there too.  You saw me dancing with him.”

“But that was only once,” said Mrs. Penfold, candidly.  “I didn’t think anything of that.  When I was a girl, if a young man liked me at a dance, we went on till we made everybody talk.  Or else, there was nothing in it.”

“Well, there was nothing in it, dear—­in this case.  And I wouldn’t advise you to give me to Lord Tatham—­just yet!”

Mrs. Penfold sighed.

“Of course one knows that that kind of young man has his marriage made for him—­just like royalty.  But sometimes—­they break out.  There are dukes that have married plain Misses—­no better than you, Lydia—­and not American either.  But—­Lydia—­you did like him?”

“Who?  Lord Tatham?  Certainly.”

“I expect most girls do!  He’s the great parti about here.”

“Mother, really!” cried Lydia.  “He’s just a pleasant youth—­not at all clever.  And oh, how badly he plays bridge!”

“That doesn’t matter.  Mrs. Deacon says you got on with him, splendidly.”

“I chaffed him a good deal.  He really plays worse than I do—­if you can believe it.”

“They like being chaffed”—­said Mrs. Penfold pensively—­“if a girl does it well.”

“I don’t care, darling, whether they like it or not.  It amuses me, and so I do it.”

“But you mustn’t let them think they’re being laughed at.  If you do that, Lydia, you’ll be an old maid.  Oh, Lydia!”—­the speaker sighed like a furnace—­“I do wish you saw more young men!”

“Well, I saw another one—­much handsomer than Lord Tatham—­this afternoon,” laughed Lydia.

Mrs. Penfold eagerly inquired.  The story was told, and Mrs. Penfold, as easily lured by a new subject as a child by a new doll, fell into many speculations as to who the youth could have been, and where he was going.  Lydia soon ceased to listen.  But when the coverlet slipped away she did not fail to replace it tenderly over her mother’s feet, and every now and then her fingers gave a caressing touch to the delicate hand of which Mrs. Penfold was so proud.  It was not difficult to see that of the two the girl was really the mother, in spirit; the maturer, protecting soul.

Presently she roused herself to ask: 

“Where is Susan?”

“She went up to write directly after supper, and we mustn’t disturb her.  She hopes to finish her tragedy to-night.  She said she had an inspiration.”

“Inspiration or no, I shall hunt her to bed, if I don’t hear her door shut by twelve,” said Lydia with sisterly determination.

“Do you think, darling, that Susy—­will ever make a great deal of money by her writings?” The tone was wistful.

“Well, no, mother, candidly, I don’t.  There’s no money in tragedies—­so I’m told.”