HESTER FAIRFIELD _is one of those twitching, high-minded, elderly ladies in black, who keep a grievance as they might keep a pet dog--as soon as it dies they replace it by another. The grievance of the moment seems to be the empty third chair, and_ MARGARET FAIRFIELD _is, as usual, on the defensive. Such a little, pretty, helpless-looking woman as_ MARGARET _has generally half a dozen big sons and a husband to bully; but_ MARGARET _has only a daughter, and her way of looking at even the chair on which that daughter ought to be sitting, is the way of a child whose doll has suddenly come to life. For the rest, she is so youthfully anxious and simple and charming that the streak of grey in her hair puzzles you. You wonder what trouble has fingered it. It does not occur to you that she is quite thirty-five._ MARGARET. [_Apologising_] Yes, she is late. MISS FAIRFIELD. As usual! MARGARET. Oh, well, she was dancing till three. I hadn’t the heart to wake her. MISS FAIRFIELD. Till three, was she? Who brought her home? MARGARET. Kit, of course. MISS FAIRFIELD. Three o’clock on Christmas morning! I wonder what the Rector said to that. MARGARET. Oh, Kit’s on holiday. MISS FAIRFIELD. I heard you tell her myself to be in by twelve. If anything could make me approve of this marriage of yours-- MARGARET. Oh, don’t begin it again, Auntie! MISS FAIRFIELD.--it’s that the child will have a strong hand over her at last. A step-father’s better than nothing--if you can call him a step-father when her father’s still alive. MARGARET. Oh, don’t! MISS FAIRFIELD. What’s the use of saying “don’t”? He _is_ alive. You can’t get away from that. MARGARET. Aunt Hester--_please_! MISS FAIRFIELD. Well, I’m only telling you--if it’s got to be, I’m not sorry it’s Gray Meredith. MARGARET. [_Smiling_] Yes, Sydney knows just how far she may go with Gray. MISS FAIRFIELD. I see nothing to laugh at in that. MARGARET. It’s so funny to think how circumspect you all are with him. He’s the one person I’ve always felt perfectly safe with. I’d ask anything of Gray. MISS FAIRFIELD. [_Grimly_] You always have, my dear! MARGARET. I don’t know why you should be unkind to me on Christmas morning. MISS FAIRFIELD. [_With a sort of grudging affection_] I suppose it’s because I’ve only got another week to be unkind to you in. MARGARET. [_Restlessly_] Oh, I wish you didn’t hate it so. MISS FAIRFIELD. My dear, when you see a person you care for, and she your own nephew’s wife, on the brink of deadly sin-- MARGARET. Must we begin it again? MISS FAIRFIELD. I do my duty. If you’d done yours your daughter wouldn’t be late for breakfast, and I shouldn’t be given the opportunity. MARGARET. Perhaps I _had_ better call her. MISS FAIRFIELD. Everything getting cold--and so disrespectful! She ought to be taught.