“And Sydney Kent?”

“He’s too stupid.”

“And Tom Bassett?”

Sally yawned.

“He’s too—­everything.  There’s cock crow, and I’m going to bed.”

The next afternoon Eugenia drove Sally in to town, and stopped on her outward trip to pay a visit to Mrs. Webb.  She found that lady serenely seated in her drawing-room, as unruffled as if she had not just dismissed a cook and cooked a dinner.

“Oh, yes, thank you, dear, all is well,” she replied in answer to the girl’s question; for she held it to be vulgarity to allude, in her drawing-room, to the trials of housekeeping.  She was not touched by such questions because she ignored that she was in any way concerned in them.  She spent six hours a day with her servants, but had she spent twenty-four she would have remained secure in her conviction that they did not come within the sphere of her life.

“I have wanted to see you to ask you to join my society, the ’Daughters of Duty,’” she went on, her eyes on a piece of fine white damask she was hem-stitching.  “Its object is to preserve our old landmarks, and when I spoke to your father he told me he was quite sure you would care to become an active member.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” began Eugenia helplessly, when Mrs. Webb interrupted her, though without haste or discourtesy.

“Not have time, my dear?” she repeated with her slow, fine smile.  “If I can find time, with all my other duties, don’t you think that you might be able to do so?”

Eugenia was baffled.  “Of course I love Kingsborough,” she said, “and I’d preserve every inch of it with my own hands if I could—­but I can’t bear meetings—­and—­and things.”

Mrs. Webb took a careful stitch in the damask.  “I thought you might care enough to assist us,” she remarked tentatively; and Eugenia succumbed.

“I’ll do anything I can,” she declared.  “I will, indeed—­only you mustn’t expect much.”

In a few moments she rose to go, lingering with a courteous appearance of being unwilling to depart, which belonged to her social training.  As she stood in the doorway, her hand in Mrs. Webb’s, the older woman looked at her almost affectionately.

“I had a letter from Dudley this morning,” she said.  “He is coming down next week for Sunday.”

A flush crossed Eugenia’s face, evoking an expression of irritation.

“You must miss him,” she observed sympathetically.

“I do miss him, but he comes often.  He is a good son.  He sent a message to you, by the way, but it was not important.”

“No, it was not important,” repeated Eugenia with a feeling that her carelessness appeared to be assumed.

She lightly kissed Mrs. Webb and ran down the steps and into the carriage, which was waiting in the road.  Her visit had left her with a curious sense of oppression, and she breathed a long draught of the invigorating air.