Afternoon-tea on Sunday comes at the very moment when the day seems most unbearable—Later, at about six o’clock, Sunday fatigue will happily begin to descend and envelop its victims, but at half-past four one is only able to remember that it is a mistake to have so large a meal in the middle of the day, that Sunday clothes are chill and uncomfortable, and that all the people in whom one has the least interest in life will shortly make their appearance. There is also the prospect of evening service, followed by cold supper: the earlier hours of the day stretch now behind one at so vast and unwieldy a length that it seems impossible that one will ever reach the end of the day alive. Aunt Aggie felt all this—she also hated the Drakes. She saw that Henry, moody in a corner by himself, regarded her with a cynical eye: her tooth, which had been quiet since luncheon, was throbbing again. She endeavoured to be pleasant to little Lettice, although she hated children, and she knew that children knew it. “Wonderfully she’s grown!” she said, bending down towards the child, who watched her with cold curiosity. “And what’s your favourite game now, Lettice? Too old for dolls, I expect.” There was no reply. “Tell Miss Trenchard about your games, dear,” said Mrs. Drake. There was no reply. “You must come and play here one day, dear,” said Aunt Aggie. “Such a big room as we’ve got upstairs—and lots of toys. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” There was no reply. “She’s shy, I expect,” said Mrs. Drake. “So many children are.” Aunt Aggie drew nearer to Lettice. “You mustn’t be shy with me, dear. I’m so proud of children. You shall have _such_ a piece of cake in a minute!” But with a little movement of her bony fingers Lettice Drake, in a voice of chill detachment, said: “You’ve got a thpot on your faith,” referring to a little black mole on Aunt Aggie’s right cheek. The voice was so chill, the indifference so complete that the failure of Aunt Aggie’s tactics was obvious to the dullest onlooker. Unfortunately Henry laughed; he had not intended to laugh: he did not feel at all in a humorous mood—but he laughed from nervousness, discomfort and disgust. He knew that Aunt Aggie would not forgive this ... he hated quarrels with Aunt Aggie. She did not look at him, but her back told him what she was thinking. He wished, bitterly, that he had more self-control; he knew that, of all possible insults, Aunt Aggie would regard most bitterly a mock at her appearance in a public place. The Drakes might be considered a public place. Mrs. Trenchard said: “Where’s Katie? You’d like to see her, Agnes, I’m sure. Perhaps she doesn’t know you’re here. I’ll see. I know you’d like to see her.” Mrs. Trenchard went away. Then Aunt Sarah, who had been hitherto absolutely silent, began, her eye never leaving Mrs. Drake’s face.