The Grey Lady | Page 4

whisper. "Mr. Pawson--what
does that mean? Can she be going to alter her--no! But--yes, it may be!
Perhaps Susan knows."
Mrs. Ingham-Baker then rang the bell twice, and resumed her seat.
Presently an aged servant came into the room. It was easy to see at a
glance that she was a very old woman, but the years seemed to weigh
less on her mind than on her body.
"Yes," she said composedly.
"Oh--eh, Susan," began Mrs. Ingham-Baker almost cringingly. "I rang
because I wanted to know if a parcel has come for me--a parcel of
floss-silk--from that shop in Buckingham Palace Road, you know."
"If it had come," replied Susan, with withering composure, "it would
have been sent up to you."
"Yes, yes, of course I know that, Susan. But I thought that perhaps it
might have been insufficiently addressed or something--that you or
Mary might have thought that it was for Mrs. Harrington."
"She don't use floss silks," replied the imperturbable Susan.
"I was just going to ask her about it, when she was called away by
some one. I think she said that it was her lawyer."
"Yes, Mr. Pawson."
Susan's manner implied--very subtly and gently--that her place in this
pleasant house was more assured than that of Mrs. Ingham-Baker, and
perhaps that stout diplomatist awoke to this implication, for she pulled
herself up with considerable dignity.
"I hope that nothing is wrong," she said, in a tone that was intended to
disclaim all intention of discussing such matters with a menial. "I
should be sorry if Mrs. Harrington was drawn into any legal difficulty;
the law is so complicated."
Susan was engaged in looking for a speck of dust on the mantelpiece,
not for its own intrinsic value, but for the sake of Mary's future. She
had apparently no observation of value to offer upon the vexed subject
of the law.
"I was rather afraid," pursued Mrs. Ingham-Baker gravely, "that Mrs.
Harrington might be unduly incensed against that poor boy, Luke
FitzHenry; that in a moment of disappointment, you know, she might
be making some--well, some alteration in her will to the detriment of

the boy."
Susan stood for a moment in front of the lady, with a strange little
smile of amusement among the wrinkles of her face.
"Yes, that may be," she said, and quietly left the room.

CHAPTER II
. A MAN DOWN.
Caress the favourites, avoid the unfortunate, and trust nobody.
The atmosphere of Mrs. Harrington's drawing-room seemed to absorb
the new-found manhood of the two boys, for they came forward shyly,
overawed by the consciousness of their own boots, by the conviction
that they carried with them the odour of cigarette smoke and failure.
"Well, my dears," said the Honourable Mrs. Harrington, suddenly
softened despite herself by the sight of their brown young faces. "Well,
come here and kiss me."
All the while she was vaguely conscious that she was surprising herself
and others. She had not intended to treat them thus. Mrs. Harrington
was a woman who had a theory of life--not a theory to talk about, but to
act upon. Her theory was that "heart" is all nonsense. She looked upon
existence here below as a series of contracts entered into with one's
neighbour for purposes of mutual enjoyment or advantage. She thought
that life could be put down in black and white. Which was a mistake.
She had gone through fifty years of it without discovering that for the
sake of some memory-- possibly a girlish one--hidden away behind her
cold grey eyes, she could never be sure of herself in dealing with man
or boy whose being bore the impress of the sea.
The strange thing was that she had never found it out. We speak
pityingly of animals that do not know their own strength. Which of us
knows his own weakness? There was a man connected with Mrs.
Harrington's life, one of the contractors in black and white, who had
found out this effect of a brown face and a blue coat upon a woman
otherwise immovable. This man, Cipriani de Lloseta, who
contemplated life, as it were, from a quiet corner of the dress circle,
kept his knowledge for his own use.
Fitz and Luke obeyed her invitation without much enthusiasm. They
were boyish enough to object to kissing on principle. They then shook

hands awkwardly with Mrs. Ingham-Baker, and drifted together again
with that vague physical attraction which seems to qualify twins for
double harness on the road of life. There was trouble ahead of them;
and without defining the situation, like soldiers surprised, they
instinctively touched shoulders.
It was the psychological moment. There was a little pause, during
which Mrs. Harrington seemed to stiffen herself, morally and
physically. Had she not stiffened herself, had