‘Exactly,’ Lady Jocelyn replied.  ’A season in London will give her balance.’

So the guests were tolerably happy, or at least, with scarce an exception, open to the influences of champagne and music.  Perhaps Juliana was the wretchedest creature present.  She was about to smite on both cheeks him she loved, as well as the woman she despised and had been foiled by.  Still she had the consolation that Rose, seeing the vulgar mother, might turn from Evan:  a poor distant hope, meagre and shapeless like herself.  Her most anxious thoughts concerned the means of getting money to lockup Harry’s tongue.  She could bear to meet the Countess’s wrath, but not Evan’s offended look.  Hark to that Countess!

’Why do you denominate this a pic-nic, Lady Jocelyn?  It is in verity a fete!’

’I suppose we ought to lie down ‘A la Grecque’ to come within the term,’ was the reply.  ‘On the whole, I prefer plain English for such matters.’

’But this is assuredly too sumptuous for a pic-nic, Lady Jocelyn.  From what I can remember, pic-nic implies contribution from all the guests.  It is true I left England a child!’

Mr. George Uplift could not withhold a sharp grimace:  The Countess had throttled the inward monitor that tells us when we are lying, so grievously had she practised the habit in the service of her family.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Melville, ’I have heard of that fashion, and very stupid it is.’

‘Extremely vulgar,’ murmured Miss Carrington.

‘Possibly,’ Lady Jocelyn observed; ’but good fun.  I have been to pic-nics, in my day.  I invariably took cold pie and claret.  I clashed with half-a-dozen, but all the harm we did was to upset the dictum that there can be too much of a good thing.  I know for certain that the bottles were left empty.’

‘And this woman,’ thought the Countess, ’this woman, with a soul so essentially vulgar, claims rank above me!’ The reflection generated contempt of English society, in the first place, and then a passionate desire for self-assertion.

She was startled by a direct attack which aroused her momentarily lulled energies.

A lady, quite a stranger, a dry simpering lady, caught the Countess’s benevolent passing gaze, and leaning forward, said:  ’I hope her ladyship bears her affliction as well as can be expected?’

In military parlance, the Countess was taken in flank.  Another would have asked—­What ladyship?  To whom do you allude, may I beg to inquire?  The Countess knew better.  Rapid as light it shot through her that the relict of Sir Abraham was meant, and this she divined because she was aware that devilish malignity was watching to trip her.

A little conversation happening to buzz at the instant, the Countess merely turned her chin to an angle, agitated her brows very gently, and crowned the performance with a mournful smile.  All that a woman must feel at the demise of so precious a thing as a husband, was therein eloquently expressed:  and at the same time, if explanations ensued, there were numerous ladyships in the world, whom the Countess did not mind afflicting, should she be hard pressed.