“Thank God,” she said to herself, “I can now make things a bit easier for that poor child.  She won’t let me, I daresay, but he will.”

She took the humble tram to their suburb, and rang at their parsonage door.  Having considerately sent word that she was coming, due preparations had been made to receive her.  She was shown into the drawing-room, which had not a displaced chair, and where the many-coloured Axminster and the cherished brocade still looked as good as new.  Almost her first act was to search for the grease marks on the sofa—­the spot was indicated by a bleached patch—­and she sat down on it, alone for a few minutes.  On this occasion the old aunt had been ordered to keep in the background; Ruby also, after due consideration of her claims, had been denied the share she clamoured for of the impending excitement, and sent out of the house; Mary had had her directions, and remained invisible for a time.  She was employed in getting Robert ready for inspection—­brushing his best jacket, tying his best neck-tie, etc., while he jerked about under her hands, and freely criticised her labours on his behalf.  For Robert took after his father as a knowing person.  He was, in fact, a bright and clever lad, who knew some things better than his mother did.  She was ever proud to admit it; but his own open acceptance of superiority, and readiness to keep it before her eyes at all times, was one of the secret crosses of her life, weighed down with so many.  However, if you marry the wrong man, you cannot expect to have the right children, and it was something that this boy had the genuineness of his intellectual gifts to give her an excuse to adore him.

“There, that will do.  It is very bad form, you know, to be so fussy about people coming, and so anxious about what they may think about you,” the young authority upon etiquette instructed the fine-fibred gentlewoman, who had done him the honour to be his mother.  And Mary took the rebuke humbly.

Bennet Goldsworthy, alone, came softly into the drawing-room to receive the distinguished guest.  He had grown fat and tubby, and a phrase of Claud Dalzell’s flashed into Deb’s memory as she marked the manner of his approach—­“that crawling ass, that would lick your boots for sixpence”.  The noonday sun does not affect polished metal more obviously than Deb’s wealth affected him.

“This is good of you,” he murmured brokenly, pressing her gloved hand.  “This is indeed good of you!” “I ought to have been before,” she returned graciously—­it was so easy to be gracious to him now—­“I have been wanting to come; but you cannot imagine how many hindrances I have had.”

“Oh, but I can indeed!” with earnest emphasis—­“I can indeed!  And have grieved that I was not able to be of some service to you in your—­your very difficult position.  I did not like to seem to force myself upon you, but I hoped—­I confidently hoped that you would send for me, if it was in my power to be of the slightest assistance to you.”