“And the pillow-cases,” Constance added as Amy left the room.

So it continued.  The next day the fever heightened.  Constance was up early, before Sophia, and trotting about the house like a girl.  Immediately after breakfast Cyril’s bedroom was invested and revolutionized; not till evening was order restored in that chamber.  And on the Wednesday morning it had to be dusted afresh.  Sophia watched the preparations, and the increasing agitation of Constance’s demeanour, with an astonishment which she had real difficulty in concealing.  “Is the woman absolutely mad?” she asked herself.  The spectacle was ludicrous:  or it seemed so to Sophia, whose career had not embraced much experience of mothers.  It was not as if the manifestations of Constance’s anxiety were dignified or original or splendid.  They were just silly, ordinary fussinesses; they had no sense in them.  Sophia was very careful to make no observation.  She felt that before she and Constance were very much older she had a very great deal to do, and that a subtle diplomacy and wary tactics would be necessary.  Moreover, Constance’s angelic temper was slightly affected by the strain of expectation.  She had a tendency to rasp.  After the high-tea was set she suddenly sprang on to the sofa and lifted down the ’Stag at Eve’ engraving.  The dust on the top of the frame incensed her.

“What are you going to do?” Sophia asked, in a final marvel.

“I’m going to change it with that one,” said Constance, pointing to another engraving opposite the fireplace.  “He said the effect would be very much better if they were changed.  And his lordship is very particular.”

Constance did not go to Bursley station to meet her son.  She explained that it upset her to do so, and that also Cyril preferred her not to come.

“Suppose I go to meet him,” said Sophia, at half-past five.  The idea had visited her suddenly.  She thought:  “Then I could talk to him before any one else.”

“Oh, do!” Constance agreed.

Sophia put her things on with remarkable expedition.  She arrived at the station a minute before the train came in.  Only a few persons emerged from the train, and Cyril was not among them.  A porter said that there was not supposed to be any connection between the Loop Line trains and the main line expresses, and that probably the express had missed the Loop.  She waited thirty-five minutes for the next Loop, and Cyril did not emerge from that train either.

Constance opened the front-door to her, and showed a telegram—­

“Sorry prevented last moment.  Writing.  Cyril.”

Sophia had known it.  Somehow she had known that it was useless to wait for the second train.  Constance was silent and calm; Sophia also.

“What a shame!  What a shame!” thumped Sophia’s heart.

It was the most ordinary episode.  But beneath her calm she was furious against her favourite.  She hesitated.