Mrs. Mayhew was most decidedly the clever woman of the family. Not only had she brains, but an unusual allowance of common sense, and a kind heart to boot. She was dark and good-looking, like most of the Fairfaxes, and inherited no small share of their force of character and determination. Having no brother of her own, she had always appropriated her cousin Reginald as such, since he, at the ripe age of six, had made impassioned love to her, a grown-up young lady of seventeen. She absolutely ruled all the men of her family (husband included) with a mild and gracious sway, always with the notable exception of her cousin “Regy.” His head had never yet bent under her yoke, and he had the audacity to differ from her on many vital subjects, and held the heresy that “it was for man to command, woman to obey, all else confusion.” Nevertheless he possessed a place in Mrs. Mayhew’s heart second only to that occupied by her husband and children. Mrs. Mayhew was never happier than when she was managing other people’s affairs, for which she had a singular aptitude. To do her justice, she meddled with the very best intentions, and her hands were always full. She was the confidante of lovers’ quarrels, of matrimonial differences untold: from the servant out of place to a girl jilted by her intended, all came to Mrs. Mayhew, and to them she lent a ready ear, her sympathy, and assistance. Her only serious trouble was her rapidly-increasing tendency to _embonpoint_, and she sighed when she ordered each new dress to be made with an increasing width of waist. Her weakness, her particular pet vanity, were her hands and feet; and certainly she had every reason to be proud of them. “Tell Helen she has the prettiest foot in London, and she’ll ask you to stay for a month,” was one of Geoffrey’s impudent remarks; and he also declared that knitting, to which she was much addicted, was merely a framework supplied by her vanity, in order to flourish about and show off her hands. She was sitting at the fire one dripping February afternoon knitting the following thoughts into a stocking: “This is the 8th. Let me see” (referring to a paper on her knees), “the _Alligator_ sails on the 26th. Not much time to be lost. I must make one desperate effort to try to reunite this wretchedly headstrong young couple. I’ll take Norman down to Southsea next week for change of air for his cough, and once established in our old lodgings I can easily carry on operations.” Here her husband entered, and she laid her plans before him. “Go to Southsea, my dear, by all means, but whatever it may do for Norman’s cough, I don’t think it will be of much use as far as Alice and Reginald are concerned. There is no answer yet from the army chaplain. The detectives are no wiser than we are ourselves. Besides which, that old scorpion, Miss Fane, has Alice talked out of all her senses by this time, be sure.”