“Well, Geoffrey, how d’ye do?” added his father with an indescribable tone and look of heartfelt delight.  “Left all your cares behind you?”

“Left my wife behind me,” said Uncle Geoffrey, making a rueful face.

“Ay, it is a sad business that poor Beatrice cannot come,” said both the old people, “but how is poor Lady Susan?”

“As usual, only too nervous to be left with none of the family at hand.  Well, Mary, you look tired.”

Overcome, Uncle Geoffrey would have said, but he thought the other accusation would answer the same purpose and attract less attention, and it succeeded, for Mrs. Langford proposed to take her up stairs.  Henrietta thought that Beatrice would have offered to save her the trouble, but this would not have been at all according to the habits of grandmamma or granddaughter, and Mrs. Langford briskly led the way to a large cheerful-looking room, talking all the time and saying she supposed Henrietta would like to be with her mamma.  She nodded to their maid, who was waiting there, and gave her a kindly greeting, stirred the already bright fire into a blaze, and returning to her daughter-in-law who was standing like one in a dream, she gave her a fond kiss, saying, “There, Mary, I thought you would like to be here.”

“Thank you, thank you, you are always kind.”

“There now, Mary, don’t let yourself be overcome.  You would not bring him back again, I know.  Come, lie down and rest.  There—­that is right—­and don’t think of coming down stairs.  You think your mamma had better not, don’t you?”

“Much better not, thank you, grandmamma,” said Henrietta, as she assisted in settling her mother on the sofa.  “She is tired and overcome now, but she will be herself after a rest.”

“And ask for anything you like, my dear.  A glass of wine or a cup of coffee; Judith will get you one in a moment.  Won’t you have a cup of coffee, Mary, my dear?”

“Thank you, no thank you,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, raising herself.  “Indeed I am sorry—­it is very foolish.”  Here the choking sob came again, and she was forced to lie down.  Grandmamma stood by, warming a shawl to throw over her, and pitying her in audible whispers.  “Poor thing, poor thing! it is very sad for her.  There! a pillow, my dear?  I’ll fetch one out of my room.  No?  Is her head high enough?  Some sal-volatile?  Yes, Mary, would you not like some sal-volatile?”

And away she went in search of it, while Henrietta, excessively distressed, knelt by her mother, who, throwing her arms round her neck, wept freely for some moments, then laid her head on the cushions again, saying, “I did not think I was so weak!”

“Dearest mamma,” said Henrietta, kissing her and feeling very guilty.

“If I have not distressed grandmamma!” said her mother anxiously.  “No, never mind me, my dear, it was fatigue and—­”