When Geraldine came in with the tea-tray to the drawing-room that Mrs. Palmer was for once able to use, because the Williamses, her only guests, had a sitting-room of their own, the aunts received her with marked favour. “Mother’s helpful girlie!” said Aunt Gertie, as Geraldine put down the plate of bread-and-butter, the Madeira cake on a glass cake stand, and another plate of rock-buns. “Where’s Elsie?” Mrs. Palmer asked significantly. “Cutting out in the kitchen.” “Tell her to come along up. She knows your aunties are here.” “I told her to come, and she made use of a very vulgar expression,” Geraldine spitefully declared. “I don’t know what’s come over Elsie, I’m sure,” Mrs. Palmer declared helplessly. “She’s learnt all these low tricks and manners from that friend of hers, that Ireen Tidmarsh.” Mrs. Palmer was very angry with Irene for her revelations, although she was secretly rather enjoying her younger daughter’s notoriety. “Get that naughty gurl up from the kitchen directly,” she commanded Geraldine. “No--wait a minute, I’ll go myself.” With extraordinary agility she heaved her considerable bulk out of her low chair and left the room. “And what have you been doing with yourself lately?” Aunt Gertie enquired of Geraldine. She was stout and elderly-looking, with a mouth over-crowded by large teeth. She was older than Mrs. Palmer, and Aunt Ada was some years younger than either, and wore, with a sort of permanent smirk, the remains of an ash-blond prettiness. They were just able, in 1913, to live in the house at Wimbledon that their father had left them, on their joint income. “There’s always heaps to do in the house, I’m sure, Aunt Gertie,” said Geraldine vaguely. “And I’m not strong enough to go to work anywhere, really I’m not. Now Elsie’s different. She could do quite well in the shorthand-typing, but she’s bone idle--that’s what she is. Or there’s dressmaking--Elsie’s clever with her needle, that I will say for her.” Mrs. Palmer came back with Elsie behind her. The girl reluctantly laid her face for a moment against each of the withered ones that bumped towards her in conventional greeting. “Hallo, Aunt Gertie. Hallo, Aunt Ada,” she said lifelessly. Mrs. Palmer began to pour out the tea, and whilst they ate and drank elegantly, the conversation was allowed to take its course without any reference to the real point at issue. “What are these Williamses like, that have got the downstairs sitting-room, Edie?” “Oh, they _are_ nice people,” said Mrs. Palmer enthusiastically. “A solicitor, he is, and only just waiting to find a house. I believe they’ve ever such a lot of furniture in store. They lived at Putney before, but it didn’t suit Mrs. Williams. She’s delicate.” Mrs. Palmer raised her eyebrows and glanced meaningly at the aunts. Aunt Ada gazed eagerly back at her. “Go and get some more bread-and-butter, Elsie,” commanded Mrs. Palmer, and when the girl had left the room she nodded at Aunt Ada.