“I don’t care what they tell you,” she was saying—­not offensively, though her voice seemed to imply that she had no time to waste in pleasing—­“in all my dealings with them I’ve found it best to treat them quite like children.”

A lady, behind the Times, smiled; her mouth—­indeed, her whole hard, handsome face—­was reminiscent of dappled rocking-horses found in the Soho Bazaar.  She crossed her feet, and some rich and silk stuff rustled.  Her whole personality seemed to creak as, without looking, she answered in harsh tones: 

“I find the poor are most delightful persons.”

Sybil Dennant, seated on the sofa, with a feathery laugh shot a barking terrier dog at Shelton.

“Here’s Dick,” she said.  “Well, Dick, what’s your opinion?”

Shelton looked around him, scared.  The elder ladies who had spoken had fixed their eyes on him, and in their gaze he read his utter insignificance.

“Oh, that young man!” they seemed to say.  “Expect a practical remark from him?  Now, come!”

“Opinion,” he stammered, “of the poor?  I haven’t any.”

The person on her feet, whose name was Mrs. Mattock, directing her peculiar sweet-sour smile at the distinguished lady with the Times, said: 

“Perhaps you ’ve not had experience of them in London, Lady Bonington?”

Lady Bonington, in answer, rustled.

“Oh, do tell us about the slums, Mrs. Mattock!” cried Sybil.

“Slumming must be splendid!  It’s so deadly here—­nothing but flannel petticoats.”

“The poor, my dear,” began Mrs. Mattock, “are not the least bit what you think them—­”

“Oh, d’ you know, I think they’re rather nice!” broke in Aunt Charlotte close to the hydrangea.

“You think so?” said Mrs. Mattock sharply.  “I find they do nothing but grumble.”

“They don’t grumble at me:  they are delightful persons”, and Lady Bonington gave Shelton a grim smile.

He could not help thinking that to grumble in the presence of that rich, despotic personality would require a superhuman courage.

“They’re the most ungrateful people in the world,” said Mrs. Mattock.

“Why, then,” thought Shelton, “do you go amongst them?”

She continued, “One must do them good, one, must do one’s duty, but as to getting thanks—­”

Lady Bonington sardonically said,

“Poor things! they have a lot to bear.”

“The little children!” murmured Aunt Charlotte, with a flushing cheek and shining eyes; “it ’s rather pathetic.”

“Children indeed!” said Mrs. Mattock.  “It puts me out of all patience to see the way that they neglect them.  People are so sentimental about the poor.”

Lady Bonington creaked again.  Her splendid shoulders were wedged into her chair; her fine dark hair, gleaming with silver, sprang back upon her brow; a ruby bracelet glowed on the powerful wrist that held the journal; she rocked her copper-slippered foot.  She did not appear to be too sentimental.