"You'll give us what I tell you," said Lady Agnes; and she mentioned with distinctness and authority the dishes of which she desired that the meal should be composed. He interjected three or four more suggestions, but as they produced absolutely no impression on her he became silent and submissive, doing justice apparently to her ideas. For Lady Agnes had ideas, and, though it had suited her humour ten minutes before to profess herself helpless in such a case, the manner in which she imposed them on the waiter as original, practical, and economical, showed the high executive woman, the mother of children, the daughter of earls, the consort of an official, the dispenser of hospitality, looking back upon a lifetime of luncheons. She carried many cares, and the feeding of multitudes--she was honourably conscious of having fed them decently, as she had always done everything--had ever been one of them. "Everything's absurdly dear," she remarked to her daughter as the waiter went away. To this remark Grace made no answer. She had been used for a long time back to hearing that everything was very dear; it was what one always expected. So she found the case herself, but she was silent and inventive about it, and nothing further passed, in the way of conversation with her mother, while they waited for the latter's orders to be executed, till Lady Agnes reflected audibly: "He makes me unhappy, the way he talks about Julia." "Sometimes I think he does it to torment one. One can't mention her!" Grace responded. "It's better not to mention her, but to leave it alone." "Yet he never mentions her of himself." "In some cases that's supposed to show that people like people--though of course something more's required to prove it," Lady Agnes continued to meditate. "Sometimes I think he's thinking of her, then at others I can't fancy _what_ he's thinking of." "It would be awfully suitable," said Grace, biting her roll. Her companion had a pause, as if looking for some higher ground to put it upon. Then she appeared to find this loftier level in the observation: "Of course he must like her--he has known her always." "Nothing can be plainer than that she likes him," Grace opined. "Poor Julia!" Lady Agnes almost wailed; and her tone suggested that she knew more about that than she was ready to state. "It isn't as if she wasn't clever and well read," her daughter went on. "If there were nothing else there would be a reason in her being so interested in politics, in everything that he is." "Ah what Nick is--that's what I sometimes wonder!" Grace eyed her parent in some despair: "Why, mother, isn't he going to be like papa?" She waited for an answer that didn't come; after which she pursued: "I thought you thought him so like him already." "Well, I don't," said Lady Agnes quietly. "Who is then? Certainly Percy isn't." Lady Agnes was silent a space. "There's no one like your father."