“Fortunately I have one black dress; it belonged to my poor sister’s set of mourning for her husband, but as she married again and went to Australia within the year, it’s really as good as new, and she sold it to me for a pound. And Grace can alter my bonnet; it’s black, but it has a pink flower,--I must get a crape poppy instead, and black gloves,--Oh, James!--and you wore white flannels this morning!--I’m glad you’ve had the decency to change them!” Mr. May had certainly changed them,--partly out of conviction that such change was necessary, and partly because Jonson, the butler, had most urgently suggested it. And he was now attired in his “regulation” Sunday suit, which gave him the proper appearance of a respectable J.P. in mourning. All day he had practised an air of pious resignation and reserved sadness;--it was difficult to keep it up because his nature was captious and irascible, especially when things happened that were opposed to his personal convenience and comfort. His efforts to look what he was not gave him the aspect of a Methodist minister disappointed in the silver collection. But perhaps on the whole, his wife was a greater humbug than he was. She was one of those curious but not uncommon characters who imagine themselves to be “full of feeling,” when truly they have no feeling at all. Nobody could “gush” with more lamentable pathos than she over a calamity occurring to any of her friends or acquaintances, but no trouble had ever yet lessened her appetite, or deprived her of sleep. Her one aim in life was to _seem_ all that was conventionally correct,--to _seem_ religious, when she was not, to _seem_ sorry, when she was not, to _seem_ glad, when she was not, to _seem_ kind, when she was not, to _seem_ affectionate, when she was not. Her only real passions were avarice, tuft-hunting and gluttony,--these were the fundamental chords of her nature, hidden deep behind the fat, urbane mask of flesh which presented itself as a woman to the world. There are thousands like her, who, unfortunately, represent a large section of the matronhood of Britain. The news of Diana’s sudden and sad end soon spread among the old and new friends and neighbours of the Polydore Mays, arousing languid comment here and there, such as: “Poor woman! But, after all, there wasn’t much for her in life--she was quite the old maid!” Or,--as at Mr. May’s club: “Best thing that could have happened for old Polydore!--he can’t trot her round any more, and he’ll be able to play the man-about-town more successfully!”