When Miss Lawford and her sister arrived at about half-past four the drawing-room wore a hospitable aspect; a huge log burning in the Elizabethan fire-place; flowers of a homely kind—chrysanthemums and Christmas roses, crocuses and snow-drops—about the rooms; and an old-fashioned silver tea-tray on an old-fashioned sofa-table, nothing of Adam or Chippendale or Queen Anne about it, but a good old ponderous piece of rosewood furniture, almost as heavy as a house. Mrs. Turchill received her guests with gracious smiles and with a heartiness that took Daphne by surprise. She had made up her mind that she was going to be snubbed, and a dash of timidity gave a new grace to her beauty. She was very grave, and seemed, to Mrs. Turchill’s scrutinising eye, to be fully awakened to the responsibilities of her position. Could she but remain in this better frame of mind she might fairly be trusted with the Derby dessert-service and the piled-up treasures of the linen-closet. Mrs. Turchill made Daphne sit on the sofa by her side while she poured out the tea, and was positively affectionate in her manner. ‘You will be making tea in this pot before long,’ she said, with a loving glance at the fluted teapot. ‘It is not a good pourer. You’ll have to learn the knack of holding it exactly in the right position.’ ‘I hope you are not sorry,’ faltered Daphne in a very low voice, meaning about the event generally, not with any special reference to the teapot. ‘Well, my dear, I am too truthful a woman to deny that it was a blow,’ returned Mrs. Turchill candidly. Edgar had kept out of the way when the sisters arrived, wishing his mother to have Daphne all to herself for a little while. ‘I suppose that kind of thing must always be a blow to a mother. “My son’s my son till he gets him a wife,” you know.’ ‘I hope Edgar will never be any less your son than he is at this moment,’ said Daphne. ‘I should not like him so well as I do if thought his regard for me could make him one shade less devoted to you.’ ‘Well, my dear, time will show,’ replied Mrs. Turchill doubtfully. ‘As a rule young wives are very selfish; they expect to monopolise their husbands’ affection. All I hope is that you love Edgar as he deserves to be loved. There never was a worthier young man, and no girl could hope for a better husband than he will make.’ To this exhortation Daphne replied nothing. She sat with downcast eyes, stirring her tea; and Mrs. Turchill, taking this silence for maidenly reserve, transferred her attentions to Madoline. ‘I am so sorry Mr. Goring did not drive over with you,’ she said. ‘I quite expected him.’ ‘You are very kind,’ answered Lina. ‘He has gone to London. I had a telegram from Euston Station an hour ago. Gerald has some business to settle with his London lawyers, and is likely to be away for some days.’ ‘I’m afraid you must find South Hill very dull in his absence,’ suggested Mrs. Turchill politely.