Foremost among these was Mr Talbot Hayes, whose ineffable air of being in the confidence of the Almighty—­not to mention the whole Hindu Pantheon—­was balm to Mrs Elton at this terrifying juncture.  For her mountain of flesh hid a mouse of a soul, and her childhood had been shadowed by tales of Mutiny horrors.  With her it was almost an obsession.  The least unusual uproar at a railway station, or holiday excitement in the bazaar, sufficed to convince her that the hour had struck for which, subconsciously, she had been waiting all her life.

So, throughout Sunday morning, she had been a quivering jelly of fear; positively annoyed with Rose for her serene assurance that ’the Pater would pull it off all right.’  She had never quite fathomed her daughter’s faith in the shy, undistinguished man for whom she cherished an affection secretly tinged with contempt.  In this case it was justified.  He had returned to tiffin quite unruffled; had vouchsafed no details; simply assured her she need not worry.  Thank God, they had a strong L.G.  That was all.

But authority, in the person of Talbot Hayes, was more communicative—­in a flatteringly confidential undertone.  A long talk with him had cheered her considerably; and on Monday she was still further cheered by a piece of news her daughter casually let fall at breakfast, between the poached eggs and the marmalade.

Rose—­at last!  And even Gladys’ achievement thrown into the shade!  Here was compensation for all she had suffered from the girl’s distracting habit of going just so far with the wrong man as to give her palpitations.  She had felt downright nervous about Major Desmond.  For Rose never gave one her confidence.  And she had suffered qualms about this new unknown young man.  But what matter now?  To your right-minded mother, all’s well that ends in the Wedding March—­and Debrett!  Most satisfactory to find that the father was a Baronet; and Mr Sinclair was the eldest son!  Could anything be more gratifying to her maternal pride in this beautiful, difficult daughter of hers?

Consequently, when the eldest son came in to report himself, all that inner complacency welled up and flowed over him in a volume of maternal effusion, trying enough in any case; and to Roy intolerable, almost, in view of that enforced reservation that might altogether change her tone.

After nearly an hour of it, he felt so battered internally that he reached the haven of his own room feeling thoroughly out of tune with the whole affair.  Yet—­there it was.  And no man could lightly break with a girl of that quality.  Besides, his feeling for her—­infatuation apart—­had received a distinct stimulus from their talk about his mother and the impression made on her by the photograph he had brought with him, as promised.  And if Mrs Elton was a Brobdingnagian thorn on the stem of his Rose, the D.C.’s patent pleasure and affectionate allusions to the girl atoned for a good deal.