She knew that she had committed an imprudence in coming to London and entering, however moderately, into the excitements of the season.  A day or two sufficed to prove the danger she was incurring; but she refused to take count of symptoms.  With a weakness which did not lack its pathos, she had, for the first time in her life, put what she called “a touch of colour” onto her cheeks, and the result so pleased her that she all but forgot the artificiality of this late bloom; each morning, when her maid had performed the office, she viewed herself with satisfaction, and was even heard to remark that London evidently did her good.  Lady Ogram tried to believe that even age and disease were amenable to her control.

She consulted doctors—­for the form; behaving with cold civility during their visit, and scornfully satirising them when they were gone.  None the less did she entertain friends at luncheon or dinner, and often talked to them as if years of activity and enjoyment lay before her.  “Wonderful old lady!” was the remark of most who left her presence; but some exchanged glances and let fall ominous words.

On the evening when May and Constance were at the crush in Pont Street, she would not go to bed, but lay on a couch in her chamber, occasionally dozing, more often wide awake and quivering with the agitation of her mind.  It was one o’clock when the girls returned, but she had given orders that Miss Tomalin should at once come to see her, and May, flushed, resplendent, entered the dimly-lighted room.

“Well, have you enjoyed yourself?”

The voice was a shock to May’s ears.  After those to which she had been listening, it sounded sepulchral.

“Very much indeed.  A delightful time!”

No token of affection had a place in their greeting.  The old autocrat could not bring herself to offer, or ask for, tenderness; but in her eyes, always expressive of admiration when she looked at May, might have been read something like hunger of the heart.

“Sit down, my dear.”  Even this form of address was exceptional.  “Tell me all about it.  Who was there?”

“Hundreds of people!  I can’t remember half of those I was introduced to.  Lord Dymchurch—­”

“Ha!  Lord Dymchurch came?  And you had a talk with him?”

“Oh, yes.  I find he takes a great interest in Old English, and we talked about Chaucer and so on for a long time.  He isn’t quite so well up in it as I am; I put him right on one or two points, and he seemed quite grateful.  He’s very nice, isn’t he?  There’s something so quiet and good-natured about him.  I thought perhaps he would have offered to take me down to supper, but he didn’t.  Perhaps he didn’t think of it; I fancy he’s rather absentminded.”

Lady Ogram knitted her brows.

“Who did go down with you?” she asked.

“Oh, Mr. Lashmar.  He was very amusing.  Then I talked with—­”

“Wait a minute.  Did you only have one talk with Lord Dymchurch?”