“It seems rather a brave sort of thing to have done,” Nancy said wistfully. Her own strong point is not moral courage. “Of course, she’s older than he is, and besides, she’s married already, and--and there are other things as well. But I can’t help being very sorry for her. And I am fond of him.” I thought Christopher Ambrey looked rather anxious, at that, and that I had better give him the opportunity of going into the question of the exact degree of fondness that Captain Patch had inspired in Mrs. Fazackerly. So I left them together. Their love affair was progressing very, very slowly, and I did not even then feel sure that it was destined to a successful fulfilment. Claire, I knew, would use all her influence to prevent it, which seemed to render it rather more likely to happen, but old Carey was capable of working seriously upon his daughter’s feelings to the extent of making her think it her duty to remain with him. There was no doubt that Christopher, hitherto singularly unsusceptible, was attracted by her. He always turned over the pages of her music for her at rehearsals, and once he had given her a bunch of lilies of the valley. There were pauses in his courtship, during which he evidently thought over the next stage before embarking upon it, but on the whole the affair was going forward. Nancy Fazackerly was looking prettier than I had ever seen her. She had one or two new frocks that summer, too, as though she thought it was worth while to look her best. “Nancy Fazackerly doesn’t look like a widow,” Mrs. Kendal said, about this time. Her tone was not exactly disparaging, although neither was it enthusiastic. But her wide, opaque gaze rested quite blandly upon Nancy as she spoke. “What does a widow look like?” Mumma is not apt at definitions, and she only replied that a widow generally _looked_ like a widow, and that Nancy Fazackerly didn’t. “So much the better,” said I. “She is very young,” Mumma said tolerantly. “And I believe it is a positive fact that her first husband was in the habit of throwing plates at her head.” She paused for a moment, and then, as far as Mumma’s large face can express anything, it expressed confusion. “When I say her first husband,” she incredibly remarked, “I mean to say her late husband.” I really thought that I had better not hear this at all, and so I turned the conversation abruptly to “The Bulbul Ameer.” It was very easy to do this, since everyone who knew anything at all about the play, and many who did not, appeared to hold very strong views about the manner of its production and to be eager to advocate them. Mumma was no exception. Bill Patch and Nancy, however, were the joint authors of the piece, and so the conversation gradually veered round to personalities again. Mrs. Kendal said that it was a great pity about Captain Patch and that she had always thought him a nice young fellow, before.