arrayed in black silk.  As the girl Lily came in, Constance lifted her head with a bland smile, and Lily kissed her, contentedly.  Lily knew that she was a welcome visitor.  These two had become as intimate as the difference between their ages would permit; of the two, Constance was the more frank.  Lily as well as Constance was in mourning.  A few months previously her aged grandfather, ’Holl, the grocer,’ had died.  The second of his two sons, Lily’s father, had then left the business established by the brothers at Hanbridge in order to manage, for a time, the parent business in St. Luke’s Square.  Alderman Holl’s death had delayed Lily’s marriage.  Lily took tea with Constance, or at any rate paid a call, four or five times a week.  She listened to Constance.

Everybody considered that Constance had ‘come splendidly through’ the dreadful affair of Sophia’s death.  Indeed, it was observed that she was more philosophic, more cheerful, more sweet, than she had been for many years.  The truth was that, though her bereavement had been the cause of a most genuine and durable sorrow, it had been a relief to her.  When Constance was over fifty, the energetic and masterful Sophia had burst in upon her lethargic tranquillity and very seriously disturbed the flow of old habits.  Certainly Constance had fought Sophia on the main point, and won; but on a hundred minor points she had either lost or had not fought.  Sophia had been ‘too much’ for Constance, and it had been only by a wearying expenditure of nervous force that Constance had succeeded in holding a small part of her own against the unconscious domination of Sophia.  The death of Mrs. Scales had put an end to all the strain, and Constance had been once again mistress in Constance’s house.  Constance would never have admitted these facts, even to herself; and no one would ever have dared to suggest them to her.  For with all her temperamental mildness she had her formidable side.

She was slipping a photograph into a plush-covered photograph album.

“More photographs?” Lily questioned.  She had almost exactly the same benignant smile that Constance had.  She seemed to be the personification of gentleness—­one of those feather-beds that some capricious men occasionally have the luck to marry.  She was capable, with a touch of honest, simple stupidity.  All her character was displayed in the tone in which she said:  “More photographs?” It showed an eager responsive sympathy with Constance’s cult for photographs, also a slight personal fondness for photographs, also a dim perception that a cult for photographs might be carried to the ridiculous, and a kind desire to hide all trace of this perception.  The voice was thin, and matched the pale complexion of her delicate face.

Constance’s eyes had a quizzical gleam behind her spectacles as she silently held up the photograph for Lily’s inspection.

Lily, sitting down, lowered the corners of her soft lips when she beheld the photograph, and nodded her head several times, scarce perceptibly.