“It is rather a delicate thing to say,” she went on, “but—well, I’m rather particular, and I’ve been abroad for a good many years.” (She branched aside to give a few impressions of the Antipodes.) “So, you see, I’ve rather lost touch. What I do want to know is, are the Cardomays quite nice people?” Ronald supported them hotly and enthusiastically. He represented Eliphalet as a delightful personality who, professionally, was second only to Sir Henry Irving in the hearts of the public. This was encouraging, but Mrs. Montmorency had not gained all the information she required. “And the dear young lady—such a sweet girl, I think—she’s entirely dependent on the old gentleman, I suppose?” “No, indeed,” returned Ronald. “She’s playing lead in an important film production at a very substantial salary.” “How nice! Nothing I like better than to hear of young people getting on. I’m an old pro. myself, Mr. Knight; used to be quite a star in my day. But, dear me! I’ve passed my turning. Thank you so much, and good afternoon.” “Good afternoon,” repeated Ronald, delighted to be rid of the lady of haunting odours. “That settles it,” said Mrs. Montmorency to herself. “It wouldn’t be fair to me if I didn’t take the chance.” At breakfast next day Eliphalet found a note on his plate stating that Mrs. Montmorency would be highly honoured if he would favour her with a call in her private boudoir at six that evening. He sent a reply to the effect that he would be pleased to come at the time stated. Meanwhile Mrs. Montmorency was rehearsing the reconciliation scene from every possible mental angle. She decided to adopt the attitude of a tired woman, sick of the world and its frivolities—a woman who yearned for tenderness and the warmth of a home fire. Contrition there should be in plenty—a hint of many privations, bravely borne, and a show of still amply-filled wells of affection wherefrom a man might fill his bucket with joy. She ransacked her wardrobe and produced a peignoir constituting a cross between a kimono and a Nottingham lace curtain. This garment, she felt sure, would lay siege to any heart. With her own hands she ironed and prepared it, then laid it aside upon the bed until the hour for dressing should arrive. Naturally, these exertions called for stimulant, and a bottle of brandy was broached with beneficial results. From a hidden recess she unearthed an early portrait of Eliphalet, and this she placed in a frame, occupied by some more recent tenant of her affections, and hung it on the wall in her boudoir. Emma was despatched, not without protest, to procure half-a-dozen arum lilies and half an ounce of cachous. The lilies were bestowed in vases on the mantelshelf, and the cachous fought a losing fight with the brandy-fumes. All being in readiness, she mounted the stairs, abandoned her corsets, donned the peignoir, and made what little improvements to her face were expedient with creams and powder.