"Alas!" sighed the widow. "I shall play indifferent well and yet--no matter. Perhaps I shall hold Spadille every hand of the game." Wafted by this pleasant hope, the widow sailed upstairs to assume the scarlet and black gown and the spade-patch which she wore to propitiate the cards; also to embellish her fingers with rings; also to trim her nails to a perfect curve and polish to whiteness the peering moon at their base. To such cardboard emotions was this lady come whose husband broke his neck out hunting. _Chapter the Fourteenth_ MONARCHY IN REPOSE On the following morning after breakfast Mrs. Courteen produced a strip of faded rose ribband. "Try to match this, child," she said to Phyllida. "But mamma, 'tis not possible. The silk is old," expostulated the daughter who was dressed and ready to take the air. "Nothing is impossible, child," generalised the widow. "Do your best--all that is required of human beings. You may take Thomas with you." "But mamma, I don't want Thomas. I would rather take Betty." "People can't always take what they desire in this world, and a very good thing too," remarked Mrs. Courteen, "for the world would be a wickeder place if they could. Betty must stay and help me." The widow was determined to begin the supervision of her daughter recommended by Mr. Ripple. It was the old story of Sisyphus and the Stones, of Tregeagle and the Thimble; as mischievous spirits are kept occupied in Tartarus, and condemned for ever to the performance of the impossible, so was Phyllida to be kept from the temptations of idleness, in order to save, if not her soul, at any rate her reputation. The widow apprehended that obedience would be more easily secured by guile than the direct imposition of a command. Miss Phyllida Courteen went out that morning with a sullen little frown above her charming little nose, and walked so fast that Thomas was hard put to keep his proper distance behind her as he continued to mutter, 'How long, O Lord?' with many a dolorous wheeze and mortified grunt. In and out of a dozen haberdashers they went. All the young women behind the counters were very polite and amazingly hopeful, but when they came to pull out the long drawers filled with ribbands of every size and colour, they could only produce the gayest pinks, the most brilliant shades of rose, and though they continued to be very cheerful and persuaded themselves and their rather petulant customer that the match was as near as could be expected, they were quite unsuccessful, and the ribbands were put back in the drawers to await a less exacting purchaser. Finally Phyllida, turning out of the tenth shop, heard St. Simon's clock strike eleven. It was a moderately fine morning, and she knew her beau was at that moment turning into Curtain Garden. She stamped her foot with vexation and disappointment. "Oh Thomas, Thomas! was ever such a mad errand before?" complained his mistress.