She did not repose; she could not.  She sat thinking, in exactly the same posture as Sophia’s two afternoons previously.  She would have been surprised to hear that her attitude, bearing, and expression powerfully recalled those of her reprehensible daughter.  But it was so.  A good angel made her restless, and she went idly to the window and glanced upon the empty, shuttered Square.  She too, majestic matron, had strange, brief yearnings for an existence more romantic than this; shootings across her spirit’s firmament of tailed comets; soft, inexplicable melancholies.  The good angel, withdrawing her from such a mood, directed her gaze to a particular spot at the top of the square.

She passed at once out of the room—­not precisely in a hurry, yet without wasting time.  In a recess under the stairs, immediately outside the door, was a box about a foot square and eighteen inches deep covered with black American cloth.  She bent down and unlocked this box, which was padded within and contained the Baines silver tea-service.  She drew from the box teapot, sugar-bowl, milk-jug, sugar-tongs, hot-water jug, and cake-stand (a flattish dish with an arching semicircular handle)—­chased vessels, silver without and silver-gilt within; glittering heirlooms that shone in the dark corner like the secret pride of respectable families.  These she put on a tray that always stood on end in the recess.  Then she looked upwards through the banisters to the second floor.

“Maggie!” she piercingly whispered.

“Yes, mum,” came a voice.

“Are you dressed?”

“Yes, mum.  I’m just coming.”

“Well, put on your muslin.”  “Apron,” Mrs. Baines implied.

Maggie understood.

“Take these for tea,” said Mrs. Baines when Maggie descended. 
“Better rub them over.  You know where the cake is—­that new one. 
The best cups.  And the silver spoons.”

They both heard a knock at the side-door, far off, below.

“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Baines.  “Now take these right down into the kitchen before you open.”

“Yes, mum,” said Maggie, departing.

Mrs. Baines was wearing a black alpaca apron.  She removed it and put on another one of black satin embroidered with yellow flowers, which, by merely inserting her arm into the chamber, she had taken from off the chest of drawers in her bedroom.  Then she fixed herself in the drawing-room.

Maggie returned, rather short of breath, convoying the visitor.

“Ah!  Miss Chetwynd,” said Mrs. Baines, rising to welcome.  “I’m sure I’m delighted to see you.  I saw you coming down the Square, and I said to myself, ’Now, I do hope Miss Chetwynd isn’t going to forget us.’”