After tea we thawed down into common-life subjects.  We were thankful to Lady Glenmire for having proposed some more bread and butter, and this mutual want made us better acquainted with her than we should ever have been with talking about the Court, though Miss Pole did say she had hoped to know how the dear Queen was from some one who had seen her.

The friendship begun over bread and butter extended on to cards.  Lady Glenmire played Preference to admiration, and was a complete authority as to Ombre and Quadrille.  Even Miss Pole quite forgot to say “my lady,” and “your ladyship,” and said “Basto! ma’am”; “you have Spadille, I believe,” just as quietly as if we had never held the great Cranford Parliament on the subject of the proper mode of addressing a peeress.

As a proof of how thoroughly we had forgotten that we were in the presence of one who might have sat down to tea with a coronet, instead of a cap, on her head, Mrs Forrester related a curious little fact to Lady Glenmire—­an anecdote known to the circle of her intimate friends, but of which even Mrs Jamieson was not aware.  It related to some fine old lace, the sole relic of better days, which Lady Glenmire was admiring on Mrs Forrester’s collar.

“Yes,” said that lady, “such lace cannot be got now for either love or money; made by the nuns abroad, they tell me.  They say that they can’t make it now even there.  But perhaps they can, now they’ve passed the Catholic Emancipation Bill.  I should not wonder.  But, in the meantime, I treasure up my lace very much.  I daren’t even trust the washing of it to my maid” (the little charity school-girl I have named before, but who sounded well as “my maid").  “I always wash it myself.  And once it had a narrow escape.  Of course, your ladyship knows that such lace must never be starched or ironed.  Some people wash it in sugar and water, and some in coffee, to make it the right yellow colour; but I myself have a very good receipt for washing it in milk, which stiffens it enough, and gives it a very good creamy colour.  Well, ma’am, I had tacked it together (and the beauty of this fine lace is that, when it is wet, it goes into a very little space), and put it to soak in milk, when, unfortunately, I left the room; on my return, I found pussy on the table, looking very like a thief, but gulping very uncomfortably, as if she was half-chocked with something she wanted to swallow and could not.  And, would you believe it?  At first I pitied her, and said ‘Poor pussy! poor pussy!’ till, all at once, I looked and saw the cup of milk empty—­cleaned out!  ’You naughty cat!’ said I, and I believe I was provoked enough to give her a slap, which did no good, but only helped the lace down—­just as one slaps a choking child on the back.  I could have cried, I was so vexed; but I determined I would not give the lace up without a struggle for it.  I hoped the lace might disagree with her, at any rate; but it would have been too much for Job,