set eyes on these Langlands. I was in Glasgow the day Lady Langlands called and she was away when I returned it.”
“Well, it’s very civil of them to ask us; it’s just a pity Father had to be in London. Don’t, for goodness sake, worry about it, you silly wee body, nobody’s worth worrying about. What good cakes these are.”
“Yes, oh yes. Mrs. Asprey’s a good baker. . . . Andy, what’ll I put on to-night? I’ve three dresses laid out.”
Andrew considered for a moment. “Well, if you really want my opinion I like the black velvet one with the funny train best.”
Mrs. Jackson’s face fell. “I was afraid you’d say black,” she said resignedly. “And I’ve got a new one I’d like fine to wear, a sort of tomato-red, a lovely shade and awfully fashionable this winter.”
Andrew had a vision of his stout mother swathed in tomato-red, the cynosure of all eyes in Lady Langlands’ drawing-room, and he said gently, “You must keep that one to cheer us up at home, but you know I never think you look so well in anything as in black—and black velvet gives your pearls a chance.”
“Well, that’s true, but all the same I would have liked to show these people that I’ve some smart clothes. I don’t know whether they’re dressers in this part of the world or not. . . . Of course, Mrs. Douglas is awfully smart. Her clothes are London, I could see that, but to my mind Glasgow’s every bit as good. . . . Black, you think, and my pearls?—I believe I’ll go and lie down for an hour before I need begin to dress, and then I’ll mebbe not get so flustered and excited. Whatever will I talk about? Is there anything much in the papers, Andy, except murders and politics? Oh, if only it was eleven o’clock to-night what a happy woman I’d be!”
“Not you, you’ll be quite sorry the party is over. When you hate the thought of a thing beforehand you always enjoy it when it comes, and anything short of the tortures of the Inquisition will seem pleasant to you to-night!”
She picked up her work-bag and a book she had been reading and prepared to go upstairs, when a thought struck her.
“But I’ve never even seen Lady Langlands. Mercy, Andy, how’ll I know which is the hostess?”
“I suppose she’ll hold out her hand, won’t she, O Manufacturer of Mountains out of Molehills?”
Mrs. Jackson sighed. “Oh, I daresay . . . I just hope I’ll be given grace to hold my tongue to-night. I always mean to be perfectly calm and dignified, and before I know what I’m doing I’m just yattering away. Uch, Andy, you needn’t laugh. . . .”
Exactly at a quarter to eight Mrs. Jackson and her son were being admitted into the hall of Langlands. Mrs. Jackson’s heart, she would have told you, was in her mouth, but she got a crumb of comfort as soon as the door opened and it was this—the Langlands’ butler could not compare either in looks or deportment with Johnson. She felt oddly uplifted by the fact, and was able to leave her cloak, and follow the butler with something like equanimity, though for days the thought of the moment when she would be ushered into a gathering of strangers had almost made her swoon.
There were only about half-a-dozen people in the room when her name was announced, and she stotted forward on her high heels towards the out-stretched hand of a tall lady in a soft grey gown who was hastening to greet her.
“Mrs. Jackson. I’m so glad to meet you at last. I’ve been so unfortunate missing you twice. . . . My husband——”
The next thing Mrs. Jackson knew was that she was sitting on a comfortable high chair talking to her host, at least, Lord Langlands was talking and she was making little gasps of assent. She looked round her. Lady Langlands was talking to Andy, very thin she was, not young, but striking looking, with a small head like a deer.
“Mrs. Jackson, I don’t think you know Mrs. Kilpatrick.” Her host was speaking, and she found herself shaking hands with a young woman with a bright colour and a fashionable head. Her dress was cut very low and finished prematurely, revealing a pair of stalwart legs and somewhat unfortunate ankles, her lips were painted an unconvincing carmine, her voice was shrill and she spoke with an affected lisp, but she was very pleasant, and assured Mrs. Jackson that she would have been to call on her long ago, but her infants had chicken-pox.
“A troublesome thing,” said Mrs. Jackson in her comfortable voice that made one think of warm nurseries and soft little garments and violet powder. “It’s such a long infection. Three weeks, isn’t it? I mind Andy—my son, you know—had been playing with a wee boy who took it, and we kept him in quarantine, as they call it, for a whole three weeks, and the day he should have gone back to school there were the spots!—real provoking. But it’s an easy trouble once you get it. I hope your children are better?”
“Oh, thanks, I think so. Nurse says they’re perfectly all right. I haven’t seen them myself for about a week. Tim and I have been away and only got back to-night.”
“Is that the way of it?” said Mrs. Jackson, and with that dinner was announced.
“We’re a man short,” Lady Langlands said, “but it doesn’t matter, for we’ll walk in just anyhow. Jean, lead the way. . . .”
It was a round table, and Mrs. Jackson found herself between her host and a small horsey-looking man who, she saw by the name-card, was Major Kilpatrick, the husband of her vivacious young friend. Having cast one glance at him she decided that she could do nothing for him in the way of conversation, so she turned her attention to her host. Her first remark was somewhat unfortunate. Looking round the room she said, “My! this is a fine house for a big family.”
“Yes,” Lord Langlands said, without enthusiasm. The nurseries at Langlands were empty. . . . “How do you like Rutherfurd?”
Mrs. Jackson looked him full in the face, gave one of her beaming smiles, and said, “We like it fine. At first, you know, I wasn’t sure about living in the country, always being used with the town, and not caring much for country sports or gardening or visiting cottages, but we’ve settled down wonderfully. Andy, my son over there, has taken to it like anything and tramps about in knickerbockers quite the country gentleman. Mr. Jackson, of course, has to be a great deal in Glasgow—he’s in London to-night, that’s why he’s not here—but he’s quite pleased with Rutherfurd too. Of course, you know the place?”
Lord Langlands laid down his soup spoon. “Walter Rutherfurd was my greatest friend. We were at school together, and Oxford together, and his boy Archie was my namesake.”
“Is that so? You’ll miss them. Ucha! I’m awfully sorry for poor Lady Jane losing her boys and her husband like that. Indeed, I don’t know how she goes on at all, and yet she’s wonderfully bright, too.”
Lord Langlands murmured something, and his companion continued.
“Have you heard how they’re liking Fife? Fancy having to go to a house in a street—I understand it’s not even a good villa in a garden—after Rutherfurd! Mind you, some people are tried in this world.”
At that moment Lord Langlands’ attention was claimed, and Mrs. Jackson turning her head met the glance of Major Kilpatrick and had, perforce, to make some remark.
She smiled shyly and said, “Isn’t it wonderful weather for the time of year?”
“Oh, not bad, not bad. . . . D’you hunt, Mrs.—eh—Jackson?”
“Me?”
