She was really rather glad. Boys at an At Home were a bore and ate all the cake. "Er--no--he can't come. But, I say, you won't mind, will you?--his mother's coming." "His mother!" exclaimed Lady Kellynch, rather surprised. "Er--yes--I asked her. I thought, perhaps, you wouldn't mind. She wants to know you." "Really? It's very kind of her, I'm sure." "You see, in a way, though she's awfully rich--I suppose she's a bit of a--you know what I mean--a sort of a _nouveau riche_. She wants to visit a few decent people, especially not too young." "Oh, indeed!" "She says it'll sort of pose her, and help her to get into society." "What curious things to say to a boy." "Oh, she's awfully jolly, mother. She says everything that comes into her head. She's ripping--I do like her." "Who was she?" asked his mother, with a rather chilling accent. "I'm sure I don't know who she was," said the boy. "I can tell you who she is: she's the prettiest woman I've ever seen." "Good gracious me!" "We had awful larks," went on Clifford. "She played with us and Pickering's kiddy sister. We danced the Tango and had charades. You can't think what fun it was. And we had tableaux. Mrs. Pickering and I did a lovely tableau, 'Death in the Desert.' She fell down dead suddenly, on the sand, you know, and I was a vulture. I'm an awfully good vulture. And I vultured about and hopped round her for some considerable time." "Horrible!" cried Lady Kellynch. "Revolting! What an unpleasant subject for a game." "It wasn't a game: it was a proper tableau: we had a curtain and all that sort of thing. They said I made a capital vulture. I pecked at Mrs. Pickering. It was a great success." "Dear me! Was it indeed? Well, if this lady's coming, you'd better go and wash your hands," said Lady Kellynch, who felt a disposition to snub Clifford on the subject. "Of course I will! I say, mother, what cakes have you got?" "Really, Clifford, I think you can leave that to me." "They have jolly little _foie gras_ sandwiches at the Pickerings." "I daresay they have." "Can I go and tell cook to make some?" "Most certainly not, Clifford!" cried the indignant mother. "But if there aren't any, she might miss them," said Clifford. "She will probably enjoy the change." "You can't think how pretty she is! I say, mother." "Yes, dear." "I say, can't you have fur put round the edge of your shoes!" "Fur round the edge of my shoes!" she repeated in a hollow voice. He twisted his hands together self-consciously. "Mrs. Pickering had an awful ripping violet sort of dress, and violet satin boots with fur round the edge. ... I noticed them when we played 'Death in the Desert.' I thought they were rather pretty." "Extremely bad style, I should think. At any rate, not the sort of thing that I should dream of wearing. Now get along."