“Has your ladyship been to Court lately?” asked she; and then gave a little glance round at us, half timid and half triumphant, as much as to say, “See how judiciously I have chosen a subject befitting the rank of the stranger.”

“I never was there in my life,” said Lady Glenmire, with a broad Scotch accent, but in a very sweet voice.  And then, as if she had been too abrupt, she added:  “We very seldom went to London—­only twice, in fact, during all my married life; and before I was married my father had far too large a family” (fifth daughter of Mr Campbell was in all our minds, I am sure) “to take us often from our home, even to Edinburgh.  Ye’ll have been in Edinburgh, maybe?” said she, suddenly brightening up with the hope of a common interest.  We had none of us been there; but Miss Pole had an uncle who once had passed a night there, which was very pleasant.

Mrs Jamieson, meanwhile, was absorbed in wonder why Mr Mulliner did not bring the tea; and at length the wonder oozed out of her mouth.

“I had better ring the bell, my dear, had not I?” said Lady Glenmire briskly.

“No—­I think not—­Mulliner does not like to be hurried.”

We should have liked our tea, for we dined at an earlier hour than Mrs Jamieson.  I suspect Mr Mulliner had to finish the St James’s Chronicle before he chose to trouble himself about tea.  His mistress fidgeted and fidgeted, and kept saying, I can’t think why Mulliner does not bring tea.  I can’t think what he can be about.”  And Lady Glenmire at last grew quite impatient, but it was a pretty kind of impatience after all; and she rang the bell rather sharply, on receiving a half-permission from her sister-in-law to do so.  Mr Mulliner appeared in dignified surprise.  “Oh!” said Mrs Jamieson, “Lady Glenmire rang the bell; I believe it was for tea.”

In a few minutes tea was brought.  Very delicate was the china, very old the plate, very thin the bread and butter, and very small the lumps of sugar.  Sugar was evidently Mrs Jamieson’s favourite economy.  I question if the little filigree sugar-tongs, made something like scissors, could have opened themselves wide enough to take up an honest, vulgar good-sized piece; and when I tried to seize two little minnikin pieces at once, so as not to be detected in too many returns to the sugar-basin, they absolutely dropped one, with a little sharp clatter, quite in a malicious and unnatural manner.  But before this happened we had had a slight disappointment.  In the little silver jug was cream, in the larger one was milk.  As soon as Mr Mulliner came in, Carlo began to beg, which was a thing our manners forebade us to do, though I am sure we were just as hungry; and Mrs Jamieson said she was certain we would excuse her if she gave her poor dumb Carlo his tea first.  She accordingly mixed a saucerful for him, and put it down for him to lap; and then she told us how intelligent and sensible the dear little fellow was; he knew cream quite well, and constantly refused tea with only milk in it:  so the milk was left for us; but we silently thought we were quite as intelligent and sensible as Carlo, and felt as if insult were added to injury when we were called upon to admire the gratitude evinced by his wagging his tail for the cream which should have been ours.