Her mother was a charming woman. She had not reached that period of humiliation in the life of a woman of the world when she hears people say that she is a charming woman _still_. No one ever thought of saying that she was a charming woman _still_. Growing old has gone out, for it has become acknowledged that the custom of a woman’s doing her best to look hideous with caps and combs and things when she gets married is allied to the Suttee; and Lady Gwendolen West--she was the fifth daughter of the late Earl of Innisfallen in the peerage of Ireland--was one of the leaders of modern intelligence who had made this discovery in the science of comparative superstition. By the aid of a confidential _masseuse_ and an hour’s sleep before lunch and dinner every day of her life, she remained worldly at forty-six. She kissed her daughter with a subtle discrimination of what her daughter expected of her and gave her her blessing. “You are a wicked child,” was the opening bar of the maternal benediction. “How wicked you have been!--absolutely naughty: you know you cannot deny it, you sweet thing. And you make me look a hundred, you know, especially when I have anything of mauve about me. Thank heaven, I am not as other women who make up with that absurd mauve complexion and think that it deceives any one. What would you think of your mother, Joe, if she made up like those poor things one meets even at the best houses, though I do think that you might have let me into your confidence, Joe--I do really. You know that I should have been delighted to take your part against your father any day. I see you looking at my new _tocque_, but if you say that the pink and crimson poppies do not look well among the corn ears I’ll have nothing more to do with you or your affairs. Now what on earth are you staring at, Joe? Isn’t it quite natural for corn and poppies----” “It’s wheat--wheat,” said Josephine, and still she kept her eyes fixed upon the headdress of her mother. (“_Only two hours ago--only two hours ago_.”)