Though physical weakness, and want of means, prevented Lady Chantrey from entertaining to any large extent, yet I doubt if any woman in the county was more really popular than this gentle hostess of Becklington Hall; for Lady Chantrey was of those who had gained the three choicest gifts of suffering--sweetness and forbearance and sympathy.

Such as Lady Chantrey never want for friends, for indeed they give, I fancy, more than they receive.

On this sunny afternoon several groups were dotted about the cool lawns of Becklington, when Tommy and Madge came tea-wards from the cave.

Lady Chantrey beckoned them to her side.

"I am so glad to see you again, Tommy," she said. "You never come to see me now. I suppose old women are poor company."

"I wish they were all like you," said Tommy, squatting upon the gra.s.s at her feet.

Then he remembered a question he had meant to ask her,

"I say, Lady Chantrey, who's living at the Grange?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know, Tommy. I heard that your guardian had let it--it was your father's wish, you know--but I did not know the tenants had arrived."

"Oh, Lady Chantrey, there's a boy there, an' he's such an awful cad."

"Cad?" echoed Lady Chantrey, questioningly.

"He--he isn't one little atom of a gentleman."

"And therefore a cad?"

Tommy coloured.

"He's an awful bounder, Lady Chantrey."

Everybody was busy in conversation, and Lady Chantrey laid a frail hand on Tommy's shoulder--then,

"Tommy," she said in a low voice, "a gentleman never calls anyone a cad--for that reason. It implies a comparison, you see."

Tommy blushed furiously, and looked away.

"I--I'm awful sorry. Lady Chantrey," he mumbled.

"Tell me about your holidays," she said.

A servant stepped across the lawn to Lady Chantrey's chair followed by a stout lady, in red silk.

"Mrs. Cholmondeley," she announced.

"And how do you do, my dear Lady Chantrey? Feeling a little stronger, I hope. Ah, that's very delightful. Isn't it too hot for anything? I have just been calling at the dear Earl's--Lady Florence is looking so well--"

Mrs. Cholmondeley swept the little circle gathered about the tea-table with a quick glance. It is good to have the Earl on one's visiting list.

Her eyes rested on Mollie Gerald, pouring out tea, and she turned to Lady Chantrey:

"Is that the young person who has been so successful with your daughter's music, Lady Chantrey?"

Mollie's cheeks were scarlet, as she bent over the tea-pot, for Mrs.

Cholmondeley's lower tones were as incisive as her ordinary voice was strident.

"Yes, that is my friend, Miss Gerald," said Lady Chantrey, smiling at Mollie.

Mrs. Cholmondeley continued a diatribe upon governesses.

"You never know, _dear_ Lady Chantrey, who they may be. So many of them are so exceedingly--"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I have been very fortunate," said Lady Chantrey.

Tommy wandered up with some cake, which he offered to Mrs. Cholmondeley, who smiled graciously.

"And who is this?" she asked.

Lady Chantrey explained.

"Not the poor colonel's heir?"

Lady Chantrey nodded.

"Really; how interesting--how are you, my dear?"

"All right," said Tommy, in obvious good health.

"This is Mrs. Cholmondeley, of Barnardley."

Tommy looked interested.

"I've heard about you from Mrs. Chundle," he said. "She's a sort of relation of yours, derived from the same lot, you know."

Mrs. Cholmondeley looked a little bewildered, and the poet patently nervous.

"Really I--"

"She's an awful good sort--Mrs. Chundle. She's the poet's housekeeper--so I expect she has to work for her living, you know."

The poet gasped.

"It's--it's all a mistake," he stammered, but not before Mrs.

Cholmondeley had turned a violent purple, and a smile had travelled round the little ring of visitors.

All at once Tommy became aware that somehow things had gone wrong and retreated hastily from the lawn, seeking the refuge of the cave among the laurels, and in a minute or two, the poet, with a murmured pretext about a view, also vanished.