Her bedroom carried on the touch of fantasy that her other room had
shown; she was lying in a red lacquer Japanese bed that mounted up
behind her like a throne. Her wall-paper was an embossed dull gold and
the chairs were carved Indian, of black ebony.

Lying in bed she appeared very old and ugly; the sharp nose was
exceedingly prominent and her white hair scattered about the pillow gave
her face the colour of dried parchment.

Dorchester brought her her chocolate and her letters and _The Times_ and
the _Morning Post_.

"Another terribly hot day, your Grace."

"Yes--I suppose so." As she took her letters she felt, for the first
time in her life, that it would perhaps be better to lie in bed for the
rest of her life and conduct the world from there.

She put the letters down and stared at the day--

"Draw the curtains again, Dorchester, and kindly ask Lady Adela if she
will be so good as to come and see me in a quarter of an hour's time."

When Dorchester had gone she lay back and closed her eyes and dozed
again, whilst the chocolate grew cold and the births and deaths and
marriages grew aged and stale. She did not care, she did not want to see
her daughter ... she did not want to see anyone, nor was there anything
now in the world worth her energy or trouble. Her body, being now at
ease, was called back to days, brighter days, days filled with thrilling
events and thrilling people, days when the world was a world and not a
dried-up cinder. Those were men ... those were women ... and then,
suddenly, she was conscious first that her daughter was speaking and
then that her daughter was a tiresome fool.

She sat up a little and her nightdress fell back showing a neck bony,
crinkled and yellow.

"I said a quarter of an hour," she snapped.

"It is a quarter of an hour, mother," said Lady Adela.

Lady Adela hated and dreaded these morning interviews. In the first
place she disliked the decorations of her mother's bedroom, thought them
almost indecent, and could never be comfortable in such surroundings.
She was also aware, by long experience, that her mother was always at
her worst at this hour in the morning and many were the storms of temper
that that absurd bed and those unpleasant black chairs had witnessed.
Thirdly she knew that she herself looked her worst and was her weakest
amongst these eccentricities and shadowed by this dim light.

She waited now whilst her mother fumbled her letters.

"There's your