In the eighties nobody wondered or exclaimed at Lady Burdenshaw’s freedom of speech and manner, or at the manners she encouraged in her guests. In the eighties Sarah Burdenshaw was generally described as “good fun.” Harrington found the dear little rustic inn very picturesque externally, but small and stuffy within, and the bedroom into which he was ushered was chiefly occupied by a large old-fashioned, four-post bedstead, with chintz hangings that smelt of mildewed lavender—indeed, the pervading odour of the “Medlow Arms” was mildew. He dressed as well as he could under considerable disadvantages; and a rumbling old landau, which had the local odour, conveyed him to Medlow Court much quicker than he could have supposed possible from his casual survey of the horse. It was ten minutes to eight when he entered Lady Burdenshaw’s drawing-room. It was a very large room, prettily furnished in a careless style, as if by a person whose heart was not set upon furniture. There were plenty of low luxurious chairs, covered with a rather gaudy chintz, and befrilled with lace and muslin, and there were flowers in abundance; but of human life the room was empty. Harrington hardly knew whether he was relieved or discomposed at finding himself alone. He had leisure in which to pace the room two or three times, to arrange his tie and inspect his dress suit before one of the long glasses, and then to feel offended at Juliet’s coldness. She knew that he was to be there. She might surely have contrived to be in the drawing-room ten minutes before the dinner hour. Half a dozen people straggled in, a not too tidy-looking matron in ruby velvet, a sharp-featured girl in black lace, and some men who looked sporting or military. One of these talked to him. “I think you must be Mr. Dalbrook,” he said, after they had discussed the weather and the state of the roads. “You are quite right—but how did you guess?” “Miss Baldwin told me you were coming, and I don’t think there’s any one else expected to-night. Do you know your hostess?” “I am waiting for that privilege.” “Ah! that explains your punctuality. Nobody is ever punctual at Medlow. Eight o’clock means half-past, and sometimes a quarter to nine. Lady Burdenshaw has reached her sixtieth year without having arrived at a comprehension of the nature of time, as an inelastic thing which will not stretch to suit feminine convenience. She still believes in the elasticity of an hour, and rushes off to her room to dress when she ought to be sitting down to dinner. Her girl friends follow her example, and seldom leave the billiard-room or the tea-room till dear Lady B. leads the way.” A whole bevy of ladies entered the room rather noisily at this moment, and among them appeared Juliet, magnificent in a red gown, which set off the milky whiteness of her shoulders.