When her guests arrived—­all travelled from London by the same train—­she received them royally.  She had clad herself with unusual magnificence; on the shrivelled parchment of her cheeks shone an audacious bloom; her eyes gleamed as if in them were concentrated all the proud life which still resisted age and malady.  Rising from her bowered throne in the drawing-room, she took a step towards Lady Amys, pressed her hand cordially—­not at all feebly—­and welcomed her with affectionate words.  The baronet she addressed as “Willy,” but with such a dignity of kindness in the familiar name that it was like bestowal of an honour.  Towards the peer her bearing was marked with grave courtesy, softening to intimate notes as their conversation progressed.  Scarce a touch of senility sounded in her speech; she heard perfectly, indulged in no characteristic brusquerie of phrase, fulfilled every formality proper to the occasion.

Sir William and his wife were the only people of their world who had always seen the lady of Rivenoak in her better aspect; who, whilst appreciating the comedy of her life, regarded her with genuine friendship.  They understood the significance of Lord Dymchurch’s visit, and, like Mrs. Toplady, though in a much more human spirit, awaited with amusement the successful issue of Lady Ogram’s scheme.  They saw no harm in it.  Dymchurch, it might well be, had fallen in love with the handsome girl, and it was certain that her wealth would be put to much better use in his hands than in those of the ordinary man who weds money.  Lady Ogram’s deliberate choice of this landless peer assuredly did her credit.  She wanted the peerage for her niece; but it would not have been difficult to gratify her ambition in a more brilliant way, had she cared less for the girl’s welfare.  Society being what it is, they did not see how their energetic old friend could have acted more prudently and kindly.

At dinner there was much pleasant talk.  The baronet’s vein of humourous criticism flowed freely.  Walking through London streets this morning, his eye had caught sight of a couple of posters which held him in meditation.

“One was a huge picture of an ox, and beneath it one read in great letters that sixty thousand bullocks are annually slaughtered for the manufacture of Nokes’s beef-tea.  The other advertised Stokes’s pills, and informed the world, in still bigger lettering, that, every minute of the day, seven of these pills ’reached their destination.’  Delightful phrase!  ‘Reached their destination.’  And this, you see, is how we adorn the walls of our cities.  It is not only permitted, but favoured.  I am quite sure that a plebiscite, if some more civilised alternative were offered, would pronounce in favor of the bullocks and the pills, as much more interesting.  Yet to my mind, spoilt by pottering among old pictures, that bit of wall was so monstrous in its hideousness that I stood moon-stricken, and even yet I haven’t