in his books, and his butterflies, that he saw very little of the people, and knew very little of what was going on in Banbridge, except through his mother.  Mrs. Anderson, in spite of her years, and a certain lack of strength which had always hampered her, was quite prominent in Banbridge society.  She was one of the old women whom young girls adore, even when the adoration is not increased by the existence of a marriageable son.  Sometimes the old lady would regard an unmarried female-caller with a soft suspicion of ulterior motives, but she never whispered them to her son.  Sylvia Anderson had a lovely, fine delicacy where the foibles of her own sex were concerned.  She was so essentially feminine herself that she was never quite rid of her maiden sense of alienation even with her son.  She would have been much happier with a daughter, although she was very fond of her son.

One afternoon in May, a short time after Mrs. Van Dorn and Mrs. Lee had made their circuit of calls which had included her, some other ladies were making the rounds in the calling-coach, which drew up before her door.  There were three ladies, two of them unmarried.  They were an elder aunt, her young unmarried niece, and a married lady who had been the girl friend of the aunt.  They made a long call, and Mrs. Anderson entertained them with tea in her pink-and-gold china cups, with cream in the little family silver cream-jug, and with slices of pound-cake.  It was an old custom of Mrs. Anderson’s which she had copied all through her married life from Madam Anderson, Randolph’s grandmother, the widow of old Dr. Anderson, the clergyman.

“I always make it a custom, my dear, to keep pound-cake on hand, and have some of the best green tea in the caddy, and then when callers come of an afternoon I can offer them some refreshment,” she had said when her son’s wife first came to live with her.  So Mrs. Anderson had antedated the modern fashion in Banbridge, but she did not keep a little, ornate tea-table in her parlor.  The cake and tea were brought in by the one maid on a tray covered with a polka-dotted damask.

This afternoon the callers had their cake and tea, and lingered long afterwards.  Now and then Mrs. Anderson glanced imperceptibly at the window, thinking her son might pass.  She regarded the unmarried aunt and the young niece with asides of reflection even while she talked to them.  The niece was not pretty, but her bloom of youth under the roses of her spring hat was ravishing.  The aunt had never been pretty; and, moreover, her bloom had gone, but she was well dressed, and her thin figure was full of grace.  She sat in her chair with delicate erectness, the folds of her gray gown was disposed over her supple length of limb with charming effect.  She also had a sort of eager, almost appealing amiability.  It was as if she said: 

“Yes, I know I am no longer young.  I am not fair to see, but indeed I mean well by you.  I would do much for you.  I even love you.  Cannot you love me for that?” and that was softly compelling.