The Grey Lady | Page 3

never afford them.
In a large house in Grosvenor Gardens two ladies were at that same
moment speaking of the FitzHenrys. It was quite easy to see that the
smaller lady of the two was the mistress of the house, as also of that
vague abstract called the situation. She sat in the most comfortable
chair, which was, by the way, considerably too spacious for her, and
there was a certain aggressive sense of possession about her attitude
and manner.
Had she been a man, one would have said at once that here was a
nouveau riche, ever heedful of the fact that the big room and all the

appurtenances thereof were the fruits of toil and perseverance. There
was a distinct suggestion of self-manufacture about Mrs.
Harrington--distinct, that is to say, to the more subtle-minded. For she
was not vulgar, neither did she boast. But the expression of her keen
and somewhat worldly countenance betokened the intention of holding
her own.
The Honourable Mrs. Harrington was not only beautifully dressed, but
knew how to wear her clothes en grande dame.
"Yes," she was saying, "Luke has failed to pass off the Britannia. It is a
rare occurrence. I suppose the boy is a fool."
Mrs. Harrington was rather addicted to the practice of calling other
people names. If the butler made a mistake she dubbed him an idiot at
once. She did not actually call her present companion, Mrs.
Ingham-Baker, a fool, possibly because she considered the fact too
apparent to require note.
Mrs. Ingham-Baker, stout and cringing, smoothed out the piece of
silken needlework with which she moved through life, and glanced at
her companion. She wanted to say the right thing. And Mrs. Harrington
was what the French call "difficult." One could never tell what the right
thing might be. The art of saying it is, moreover, like an ear for music,
it is not to be acquired. And Mrs. Ingham-Baker had not been gifted
thus.
"And yet," she said, "their father was a clever man--as I have been
told."
"By whom?" inquired Mrs. Harrington blandly.
Mrs. Ingham-Baker paused in distress.
"I wonder who it was," she pretended to reflect.
"So do I," snapped Mrs. Harrington.
Mrs. Ingham-Baker's imagination was a somewhat ponderous affair,
and, when she trusted to it, it usually ran her violently down a steep
place. She concluded to say nothing more about the late Admiral
FitzHenry.
"The boy," said Mrs. Harrington, returning to the hapless Luke, "has
had every advantage. I suppose he will try to explain matters when he
comes. I could explain it in one word--stupidity."
"Perhaps," put in Mrs. Ingham-Baker nervously, "the brains have all
gone to the other brother, Henry. It is sometimes so with twins."

Mrs. Harrington laughed rather derisively.
"Stupid woman to have twins," she muttered.
This was apparently one of several grievances against the late Mrs.
FitzHenry.
"They have a little money of their own, have they not?" inquired Mrs.
Ingham-Baker, with the soft blandness of one for whom money has
absolutely no attraction.
"About enough to pay their washerwoman."
There was a pause, and then Mrs. Ingham-Baker heaved a little sigh.
"I am sure, dear," she said, "that in some way you will be rewarded for
your great kindness to these poor orphan boys."
She shook her head wisely, as if reflecting over the numerous cases of
rewarded virtue which had come under her notice, and the action made
two jet ornaments in her cap wobble, in a ludicrous manner, from side
to side.
"That may be," admitted the lady of the house, "though I wish I felt as
sure about it as you do."
"But then," continued Mrs. Ingham-Baker, in a low and feeling tone,
"you always were the soul of generosity."
The "soul of generosity" gave an exceedingly wise little smile-- almost
as if she knew better--and looked up sharply towards the door. At the
same moment the butler appeared.
"Mr. Pawson, ma'am," he said.
The little nod with which this information was received seemed to
indicate that Mr. Pawson had been expected.
Beneath her black curls Mrs. Ingham-Baker's beady eyes were very
much on the alert.
"In the library, James," said Mrs. Harrington--and the two jet
ornaments bending over the silken needlework gave a little throb of
disappointment.
"Mr. Pawson," announced the lady of the house, "is the legal light who
casts a shadow of obscurity over my affairs."
And with that she left the room.
As soon as the door was closed Mrs. Ingham-Baker was on her feet.
She crossed the room to where her hostess's key-basket and other
belongings stood upon a table near the window. She stood looking
eagerly at these without touching them. She even stooped down to

examine the address of an envelope.
"Mr. Pawson!" she said, in a breathless