Beatrice had therefore no time to make any remark with regard to Mrs. Tester’s unwonted visitor.

“This is delightful,” said Mrs. Meadowsweet, as she clasped her hostess’s hand, in the long, cool, refined-looking drawing-room.  “I’m very glad to come, and it’s most kind of you to invite me.  Dear, dear, what a cool room!  Wonderful!  How do you manage this kind of effect, Mrs. Bertram?  Dearie me—­very pretty—­very pretty indeed.”

Here Mrs. Meadowsweet sank down on one of the sofas, and gazed round her with the most genuine delight.

“Where’s Bee?” she said.  “She ought to look round this room and take hints from it.  We spent a lot of money over our drawing-room, but it never looks like this.  Where are you, Beatrice?”

“Never mind now,” responded Mrs. Bertram, whose voice, in spite of herself, had to take an extra well-bred tone when she spoke to Mrs. Meadowsweet.  Miss Beatrice has just gone out with my girls, and I thought you and I would have tea here, and afterwards sit under the shade of that oak-tree and watch the children at their game.”

“Very nice, I’m sure,” responded Mrs. Meadowsweet.  She spread out her fat hands on her lap and untied her bonnet-strings.  “It’s hot,” she said.  “Do you find the dog-days try you very much, Mrs. Bertram?”

“I don’t feel the heat particularly,” said Mrs. Bertram.  She was anxious to assume a friendly tone, but was painfully conscious that her voice was icy.

“Well, that’s lucky for you,” remarked the visitor.  “I flush up a good deal.  Beatrice never does.  She takes after her father; he was wonderfully cool, poor man.  Have you got a newspaper of any sort about, that you’d lend me, Mrs. Bertram?”

“Oh, certainly,” answered Mrs. Bertram, in some astonishment.  “Here is yesterday’s Times.”

“I’ll make it into a fan, if you have no objection.  Now, that’s better.  Dear, dear, what a nice room!”

Mrs. Bertram fidgetted on her chair.  She wondered how many more times Mrs. Meadowsweet would descant on the elegancies of her drawing-room.  She need not have feared.  Whatever Mrs. Meadowsweet was she was honest; and at that very moment her eyes lighted on the felt which covered the floor.  Mrs. Meadowsweet had never been trained in a school of art, but, as she said to herself, no one knew better what was what than she did; above all, no one knew better what was comme il faut in the matter of carpets.  Meadowsweet, poor man, had been particular about his carpets.  There were grades in carpets as in all other things, and felt, amongst these grades, ranked low, very low indeed.  Kidderminster might be permitted in bedrooms, although Mrs. Meadowsweet would scorn to see it in any room in her house, but Brussels was surely the only correct carpet for people of medium means to cover their drawing-room floors with.  The report that Mrs. Bertram’s drawing-room wore a mantle of felt had reached Mrs. Meadowsweet’s