[MRS. EMPTAGE _rises_; MRS. CLOYS _kisses her on both cheeks, then turns away_. MRS. EMPTAGE. You will see Theo and her husband in a few minutes. They are staying with me just now. “Weak, giddy mother,” am I, Harriet? My child flies to me in her trouble, nevertheless. MRS. CLOYS. [_Wiping her eyes._] The dear bishop will be so rejoiced. Not a newspaper has been taken at the Palace this week. [_Resuming her seat._] It has hit us hard. How did it all come about? SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. In this way. I—— MRS. EMPTAGE. [_Sitting again._] Why, we’ve all known Jack Allingham for years—— SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. [_Sitting._] A good fellow—little dull, perhaps—little prosy—— MRS. EMPTAGE. [_Glancing at_ JUSTINA.] At one time we thought he was rather inclined to pay ’Tina—— JUSTINA. What rot, mother! MRS. CLOYS. Oh! MRS. EMPTAGE. However, he married this creature, Olive Harker—daughter of a Major Harker—— SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. “Crummy” Harker—stout man—— JUSTINA. Four years ago this month. MRS. EMPTAGE. Yes, in the summer of the year in which Theo was married to Fraser of Locheen. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. My extraordinary chronological faculty ought to serve me here. Theophila and Locheen were married in the March, Jack Allingham and Miss Harker in the following June; _I_ took the chair that year at no less than three public dinners—— MRS. EMPTAGE. Of course, when the two couples settled down in London the usual exchange of visits began. But from the first it was quite evident that Mrs. Allingham resented her husband’s friendship for Theo. MRS. CLOYS. Why should Mrs. Allingham have resented it? JUSTINA. Olive was always a jealous cat—person. SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. John is some months younger than his wife, I may tell you. No marriage can turn out happily when the balance of age drops ever so slightly on the woman’s side. My observation—— MRS. CLOYS. Rubbish! SIR FLETCHER PORTWOOD. I know my world, Harriet. JUSTINA. What was it that Olive said about that, ma? MRS. EMPTAGE. When the wife is older than the husband every fresh little line in her face becomes an acute pain to her, just as if it were cut into her flesh, and renewed daily, with a knife. Those are Mrs. Allingham’s own words. MRS. CLOYS. Poor wretch! MRS. EMPTAGE.