“Mr. Lashmar?  Oh, I have written to him myself,” said the old lady, as if speaking of a matter without importance.

Three days went by, and it was Saturday.  Lady Ogram came down earlier than usual this morning, but did not know how to occupy herself; she fretted at the rainy sky which kept her within doors; she tried to talk with her secretary of an important correspondence they had in hand (it related to a projected society for the invigoration of village life), but her thoughts were too obviously wandering.  Since that dialogue in the library, not a word regarding Miss Tomalin had escaped her; all at once she said: 

“My niece is due here at four this afternoon.  I want you to be with me when she comes into the room.  You won’t forget that?”

Never before had Constance seen the old autocrat suffering from nervousness; it was doubtful whether anyone at any time had enjoyed the privilege.  Strange to say, this abnormal state of things did not irritate Lady Ogram’s temper; she was remarkably mild, and for once in her life seemed to feel it no indignity to stand in need of moral support.  Long before the time for Miss Tomalin’s arrival, she established herself on her throne amid the drawing-room verdure.  Constance tried to calm her by reading aloud, but this the old lady soon found unendurable.

“I wonder whether the train will be late?” she said.  “No doubt it will; did you ever know a train punctual?  It may be half an hour late.  The railways are scandalously managed.  They ought to be taken over by the government.”

“I don’t think that would improve matters,” said the secretary, glad of a discussion to relieve the tedium.  She too was growing nervous.

“Nonsense!  Of course it would.”

Constance launched into argument, and talked for talking’s sake.  She knew that her companion was not listening.

“It’s four o’clock,” exclaimed Lady Ogram presently.  “There may be an accident with the brougham.  Leggatt sometimes drives very carelessly—­” no more prudent coachman existed—­“and the state of the roads about here is perfectly scandalous”—­they were as good roads as any in England.  “What noise was that?”

“I heard nothing.”

“I’ve often noticed that you are decidedly dull of hearing.  Has it always been so?  You ought to consult a what are the men called who see to one’s ears?”

Lady Ogram was growing less amiable, and with much ado Constance restrained herself from a tart reply.  Three minutes more, and the atmosphere of the room would have become dangerously electric.  But before two minutes had elapsed, the door opened, and a colourless domestic voice announced: 

“Miss Tomalin.”