There entered very much the kind of figure that Constance had expected to see; a young lady something above the middle height, passably, not well, dressed, moving quickly and not ungracefully, but with perceptible lack of that self-possession which is the social testimonial.  She wore a new travelling costume, fawn-coloured, with a slightly inappropriate hat (too trimmy), and brown shoes which over-asserted themselves.  Her collar was of the upright sort, just turned down at the corners; her tie, an ill-made little bow of red.  About her neck hung a pair of eye-glasses; at her wrist were attached a silver pencil-case and a miniature ivory paper-knife.  The face corresponded fairly well with its photographic presentment so long studied by Lady Ogram, and so well remembered by Constance Bride; its colour somewhat heightened and the features mobile under nervous stress, it offered a more noticeable resemblance to that ancestral portrait in the dining-room.

Lady Ogram had risen; she took a tremulous step or two from the throne, and spoke in a voice much more senile than its wont.

“I am glad to see you, May—­glad to see you!  This is my friend and secretary, Miss Bride, whom I mentioned to you.”

Constance and the new-comer bowed, hesitated, shook hands.  Miss Tomalin had not yet spoken; she was smiling timidly, and casting quick glances about the room.

“You had an easy journey, I hope,” said Miss Bride, aware that the old lady was sinking breathless and feeble into her chair.

“Oh, it was nothing at all.”

Miss Tomalin’s utterance was not markedly provincial, but distinct from that of the London drawing-room; the educated speech of the ubiquitous middle-class, with a note of individuality which promised to command itself better in a few minutes.  The voice was pleasantly clear.

“You had no difficulty in finding the carriage?” said Lady Ogram, speaking with obvious effort.

“Oh, none whatever, thank you!  So kind of you to send it for me.”

“I wanted to see you for a moment, as soon as you arrived.  Now they shall take you to your room.  Come down again as soon as you like; we will have tea.”

“Thank you; that will be very nice.”

Miss Tomalin stood up, looked at the plants and flowers about her, and added in a voice already more courageous: 

“What a charming room!  Green is so good for the eyes.”

“Are your eyes weak?” inquired Lady Ogram, anxiously.

“Oh, not really weak,” was the rapid answer (Miss Tomalin spoke more quickly as she gained confidence), “I use glasses when I am studying or at the piano, but they’re not actually necessary.  Still, I have been advised to be careful.  Of course I read a great deal.”

There was a spontaneity, a youthful vivacity, in her manner, which saved it from the charge of conceit; she spoke with a naive earnestness pleasantly relieved by the smile in her grey eyes and by something in the pose of her head which suggested a latent modesty.