Mrs. Brookenham waited so long to say what she considered that before she next spoke the question appeared to have dropped. Then she only replied as if suddenly remembering her manners: “Won’t you eat something?” She indicated a particular plate. “One of the nice little round ones?” The Duchess appropriated a nice little round one and her hostess presently went on: “There’s one thing I mustn’t forget--don’t let us eat them ALL. I believe they’re what Lord Petherton really comes for.” The Duchess finished her mouthful imperturbably before she took this up. “Does he come so often?” Mrs. Brookenham might have been, for judicious candour, the Muse of History. “I don’t know what he calls it; but he said yesterday that he’d come today. I’ve had tea earlier for you,” she went on with her most melancholy kindness--“and he’s always late. But we mustn’t, between us, lick the platter clean.” The Duchess entered very sufficiently into her companion’s tone. “Oh I don’t feel at all obliged to consider him, for he has not of late particularly put himself out for me. He has not been to see me since I don’t know when, and the last time he did come he brought Mr. Mitchett.” “Here it was the other way round. It was Mr. Mitchett, the other year, who first brought Lord Petherton.” “And who,” asked the Duchess, “had first brought Mr. Mitchett?” Mrs. Brookenham, meeting her friend’s eyes, looked for an instant as if trying to recall. “I give it up. I muddle beginnings.” “That doesn’t matter if you only MAKE them,” the Duchess smiled. “No, does it?” To which Mrs. Brookenham added: “Did he bring Mr. Mitchett for Aggie?” “If he did they’ll have been disappointed. Neither of them has seen, in my house, the tip of her nose.” The Duchess announced it with a pomp of pride. “Ah but with your ideas that doesn’t prevent.” “Prevent what?” “Why what I suppose you call the pourparlers.”