ich
had distinguished Miss Calthorpe at nineteen. She was small and slim,
with a delicate complexion. She had large soft eyes of a limpid
innocent azure, regular features, rosebud lips, hands after Velasquez,
and an unexceptionable taste in dress, the selection of which formed
one of the most onerous occupations of her life. To attire herself
becomingly, and to give the Squire the dinners he best liked, in an
order of succession so dexterously arranged as never to provoke
satiety, were Mrs. Tempest's cardinal duties. In the intervals of her
life she read modern poetry, unobjectionable French novels, and
reviews. She did a little high-art needle-work, played Mendelssohn's
Lieder, sang three French _chansons_ which her husband liked, slept,
and drank orange pekoe. In the consumption of this last article Mrs.
Tempest was as bad as a dram-drinker. She declared her inability to
support life without that gentle stimulant, and required to be wound up
at various hours of her languid day with a dose of her favourite
beverage.

"I think I'll take a cup of tea," was Mrs. Tempest's inevitable remark
at every crisis of her existence.

"And so you are going back to Oxford, Roderick?" the lady began with a
languid kindness.

Mrs. Tempest had never been known to be unkind to anyone. She regarded
all her fellow-creatures with a gentle tolerance. They were there, a
necessary element of the universe, and she bore with them. But she had
never attached herself particularly to anybody except the Squire. Him
she adored. He took all the trouble of life off her hands, and gave her
all good things. She had been poor, and he had made her rich; nobody,
and he had elevated her into somebody. She loved him with a canine
fidelity, and felt towards him as a dog feels towards his master--that
in him this round world begins and ends.

"Yes," assented Rorie, with a sigh, "I'm going up to-morrow."

"Why up?" inquired Miss McCroke, without lifting her eyes from her
needles. "It isn't up on the map."

"I hope you are going to get a grand degree," continued Mrs. Tempest,
in that soft conciliatory voice of hers; "Senior Wrangler, or
something."

"That's the other shop," exclaimed Rorie; "they grow that sort of
timber at Cambridge. However, I hope to pull myself through somehow or
other this time, for my mother's sake. She attaches a good deal of
importance to it, though for my own part I can't see what good it can
do me. It won't make me farm my own