Mr. Critchlow advanced very slowly into the room.  “Ye still carry your head on a stiff neck,” said he, deliberately examining Sophia.  Then with great care he put out his long thin arm and took her hand.  “Well, I’m rare and glad to see ye!”

Every one was thunderstruck at this expression of joy.  Mr. Critchlow had never been known to be glad to see anybody.

“Yes,” twittered Maria, “Mr. Critchlow would come in to-night.  Nothing would do but he must come in to-night.”

“You didn’t tell me this afternoon,” said Constance, “that you were going to give us the pleasure of your company like this.”

He looked momentarily at Constance.  “No,” he grated, “I don’t know as I did.”

His gaze flattered Sophia.  Evidently he treated this experienced and sad woman of fifty as a young girl.  And in presence of his extreme age she felt like a young girl, remembering the while how as a young girl she had hated him.  Repulsing the assistance of his wife, he arranged an armchair in front of the fire and meticulously put himself into it.  Assuredly he was much older in a drawing-room than behind the counter of his shop.  Constance had noticed that in the afternoon.  A live coal fell out of the fire.  He bent forward, wet his fingers, picked up the coal and threw it back into the fire.

“Well,” said Sophia.  “I wouldn’t have done that.”

“I never saw Mr. Critchlow’s equal for picking up hot cinders,” Maria giggled.

Mr. Critchlow deigned no remark.  “When did ye leave this Paris?” he demanded of Sophia, leaning back, and putting his hands on the arms of the chair.

“Yesterday morning,” said Sophia,

“And what’n ye been doing with yeself since yesterday morning?”

“I spent last night in London,” Sophia replied.

“Oh, in London, did ye?”

“Yes.  Cyril and I had an evening together.”

“Eh?  Cyril!  What’s yer opinion o’ Cyril, Sophia?”

“I’m very proud to have Cyril for a nephew,” said Sophia.

“Oh!  Are ye?” The old man was obviously ironic.

“Yes I am,” Sophia insisted sharply.  “I’m not going to hear a word said against Cyril.”

She proceeded to an enthusiastic laudation of Cyril which rather overwhelmed his mother.  Constance was pleased; she was delighted.  And yet somewhere in her mind was an uncomfortable feeling that Cyril, having taken a fancy to his brilliant aunt, had tried to charm her as he seldom or never tried to charm his mother.  Cyril and Sophia had dazzled and conquered each other; they were of the same type; whereas she, Constance, being but a plain person, could not glitter.

She rang the bell and gave instructions to Amy about food—­fruit cakes, coffee and hot milk, on a tray; and Sophia also spoke to Amy murmuring a request as to Fossette.

“Yes, Mrs. Scales,” said Amy, with eager deference.

Mrs. Critchlow smiled vaguely from a low chair near the curtained window.  Then Constance lit another burner of the chandelier.  In doing so, she gave a little sigh; it was a sigh of relief.  Mr. Critchlow had behaved himself.  Now that he and Sophia had met, the worst was over.  Had Constance known beforehand that he would pay a call, she would have been agonized by apprehensions, but now that he had actually come she was glad he had come.