“One that someone else would welcome,” put in Devitt gallantly.

But Mavis took no notice of this interruption, as she said: 

“Of course.  Nothing I should wish for more.”

Miss Spraggs made two or three further efforts to take a rise out of Mavis; in each case, such was the younger woman’s naturalness and self-possession, that it was the would—­be persecutor who appeared at a disadvantage.

After luncheon the womenfolk moved to the drawing room; when Victoria presently went to sit with her invalid brother, Mrs Devitt assumed a business-like manner as she requested Mavis to sit by her.  The latter knew that her fate was about to be decided.  They sat by the window where, but for the intervening foliage, Mavis would have been able to see her old home.

“This is our best chance of a quiet talk, so I’ll come to the point at once,” began Mrs Devitt.

“By all means,” said Mavis, as Miss Spraggs took up a book and pretended to be interested in its contents.

“How soon do you require a situation?”

“At once.”

“Has Miss Mee applied to anyone else in the neighbourhood on your account?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“And you yourself, have you written to anyone here?”

“There’s no one I could write to.  There’s not one of my father’s old friends I’ve kept up.  They’ve all forgotten my very existence, years ago.”

“Sure?”

“Who am I to remember?” asked Mavis simply.

It was on Mrs Devitt’s lips to give the girl Sir Archibald’s message, but the thought of her unmarried step—­daughter restrained her.  She addressed Mavis rather hurriedly (she tried hard to act conscientiously): 

“I may as well say at once that the opportunity that presented itself, when I wrote to Miss Mee, has passed.”

The room seemed to move round Mavis.  Mrs Devitt continued, as she noticed the look of dismay on the girl’s face: 

“But I need hardly tell you that I will do all I can to do something for you.”

“Thank you,” said Mavis.

“Can’t you get anything to do in London?”

“I might.”

“Have you tried?”

“A little.”

Mavis felt tears welling into her eyes; she would never have forgiven herself if she had displayed the extremity of weeping before these people, who, after all, were not of her social world.  She resolved to change the subject and keep any expression of her disappointment till she was safe from unsympathetic eyes.

“Did you know my father?” she asked.

“I didn’t live here, then.  I married Mr—­my husband six years ago.”

“I suppose he knew him?”

“I gather so.”

Very soon after, the two men came into the drawing-room, having considerably curtailed the time they usually devoted to their cigars.

“We were discussing getting something to do for Miss Keeves,” said Mrs Devitt.