“The lady you have called down is here,” said Arabella’s cold glance, in answer to his.

They sat with folded hands while Wilfrid turned to Mrs. Chump, who advanced, a shock of blue satin to the eye, crying, on a jump:  “Is ut Mr. Wilfrud?”

“It’s I, ma’am.”  Wilfrid bowed, and the censorious ladies could not deny that, his style was good, if his object was to be familiar.  And if that was his object, he was paid for it.  A great thick kiss was planted on his cheek, with the motto:  “Harm to them that thinks ut.”

Wilfrid bore the salute like a man who presumes that he is flattered.

“And it’s you!” said Mrs. Chump.  “I was just off.  I’m packed, and bonnutted, and ready for a start; becas, my dear, where there’s none but women, I don’t think it natural to stop.  You’re splendud!  How a little fella like Pole could go and be father to such a mighty big son, with your bit of moustache and your blue eyes!  Are they blue or a bit of grey in ’em?” Mrs. Chump peered closely.  “They’re kill’n’, let their colour be annyhow.  And I that knew ye when ye were no bigger than my garter!  Oh, sir! don’t talk of ut; I’ll be thinkin’, of my coffin.  Ye’re glad to see me?  Say, yes.  Do!”

“Very glad,” quoth Wilfrid.

“Upon your honour, now?”

“Upon my honour!”

“My dears” (Mrs. Chump turned to the ladies), “I’ll stop; and just thank your brother for’t, though you can’t help being garls.”

Reduced once more to demonstrate like schoolgirls by this woman, the ladies rose together, and were retiring, when Mrs. Chump swung round and caught Arabella’s hand.  “See heer,” she motioned to Wilfrid.  Arabella made a bitter effort to disengage herself.  “See, now!  It’s jeal’sy of me, Mr. Wilfrud, becas I’m a widde and just an abom’nation to garls, poor darlin’s!  And twenty shindies per dime we’ve been havin’, and me such a placable body, if ye’ll onnly let m’ explode.  I’m all powder, avery bit! and might ha’ been christened Saltpetre, if born a boy.  She hasn’t so much as a shot to kill a goose, says Chump, poor fella!  But he went, annyway.  I must kiss somebody when I talk of ’m.  Mr. Wilfrud, I’ll take the girls, and entitle myself to you.”

Arabella was the first victim.  Her remonstrance was inarticulate.  Cornelia’s “Madam!” was smothered.  Adela behaved better, being more consciously under Wilfrid’s eye; she prepared her pocket-handkerchief, received the salute, and deliberately effaced it.

“There!” said Mrs. Chump; “duty to begin with.  And now for you, Mr. Wilfrud.”

The ladies escaped.  Their misery could not be conveyed to the mind.  The woman was like a demon come among them.  They felt chiefly degraded, not by her vulgarity, but by their inability to cope with it, and by the consequent sickening sense of animal inefficiency—­the block that was put to all imaginative delight in the golden hazy future they figured for themselves, and which was their wine of