It was on the Marquis’s lips to say a word or two in disparagement of the invited guest, but on second thoughts it seemed to him that he had better refrain; the Marchioness, too, was about to plead, she did not know exactly what, but she thought she would like to reassure the Marquis. . . .  On second thoughts she decided too that it would be better (perhaps) to refrain.  Well, to escape from the toils of an interesting story (for I’m no longer a story-teller but a prefacer) I will say that three nights later Sir Hugh took the Marchioness in to dinner; he sat in his predecessor’s chair, knowing nothing of him, thereby startling his hosts, who, however, soon recovered their presence of mind.  After dinner the Marquis said, ’Now, Sir Hugh, I hope you will excuse me if I go upstairs.  I am taking the racing calendar with me, you see.’

My forerunner, the author of Muslin, should have written the story sketched here with a failing hand, his young wit would have allowed him to tell how the marriage that had wilted sadly after the death of Uncle Toby now renewed its youth, opening its leaves to the light again, shaking itself in the gay breezes floating by.  He would have been able in this story to present three exemplars of the domestic virtues, telling how they went away to the seaside together, and returned together to their castle among tall trees in October compelling the admiration of the entire countryside.  He would have shown us the Marchioness entertaining visitors while the two men talked by the fireplace, delighting in each other’s company, and he would not have forgotten to put them before us in their afternoon walks, sharing between them Violet’s knick-knacks, her wraps, her scarf, her fan, her parasol, her cushion.  His last chapter would probably be in a ball-room, husband and lover standing by the door watching the Marchioness swinging round the room on the arm of a young subaltern.  ’Other women are younger than she, Kilcarney, but who is as graceful?  Have you ever seen a woman hold herself like Violet?’ One of the daughters (for there have been children by this second, or shall we say by this third, marriage) comes up breathless after the dance.  ’Darling Uncle Hughie, won’t you take me for an ice?’ and he gives her his arm affectionately, but as they pass away to the buffet Sir Hugh hears Kilcarney speaking of Lily as his daughter.  Sir Hugh’s face clouds suddenly, but he remembers that, after all, Kilcarney is a guardian of his wife’s honour.  A very ingenious story, no doubt, and if, as the young man’s ascendant—­the critics of 1915 are pleased to speak of me as ascendant from the author of Muslin—­I may be permitted to remark upon it, I would urge the very grave improbability that three people ever lived contemporaneously who were wise enough to prefer, and so consistently, happiness to the conventions.

There are still May Gould and Olive to consider, but this preface has been prolonged unduly, and it may be well to leave the reader to imagine a future for these girls, and to decide the interests that will fill Mrs. Barton’s life when Lord Dungory’s relations with this world have ceased.