To-day, presiding at the tea-table in her son's country-house, an eager light in her eyes, she looked like neither of her portraits: more nearly approached, perhaps, poor Arthur Gwynne's ideal of her; not in the least the frozen stoic of the past three days. When she finally made an uncontrollable movement that half-overturned the cream-jug, Flora Thangue's curiosity overcame her, and she murmured, tentatively: "If I had ever seen you nervous before, Vicky--" "I am not nervous, but allowances are to be made for maternal anxiety." "Oh!" Miss Thangue drew a deep breath. She continued, vaguely, "Oh, the maternal role--" "Have I ever failed as a mother?" asked Lady Victoria, dispassionately. "No, but you are so many other things, too. Somehow, when I am away from you I see you in almost every other capacity." "Jack is thirty and I am forty-nine." "_You_ look thirty," replied Flora, with equal candor. "I am thankful that my age is in Lodge; I can never be tempted to enroll myself with the millions that were married when just sixteen." "Oh, you never could make a fool of yourself," murmured her friend. Then, as Victoria showed signs of relapsing into silence, she plunged in recklessly; "Jack is bound to be elected. When has he ever failed to get what he wanted? But you, Vicky dear--is there anything wrong? You had a bulky letter from California the day I arrived. I do hope that tiresome property is not giving you trouble. What a pity it is such a long way off." "The San Francisco lease runs out shortly. Half of that, and the southern ranch, are my only independent sources of income. The northern ranch belongs to Jack. All three are getting less and less easy to let in their entirety, my agents write me, and I feel half a pauper already." "This is not so bad," murmured Flora. "Strathland would bundle me out in ten minutes if anything happened to Jack."