shop window displeased her now; it turned down
all round, and though she loved that shape, she was afraid it was not
fashionable this year. And she looked long in the window of that shop,
trying to persuade herself that the hats in there would suit her, and
that she liked what she did not like. In other shop windows she looked,
too. It was a year since she had seen any, and for thirty-four years
past she had only seen them in company with the Squire or with her
daughters, none of whom cared much for shops.

The people, too, were different from the people that she saw when she
went about with Horace or her girls. Almost all seemed charming, having
a new, strange life, in which she--Margery Pendyce--had unaccountably a
little part; as though really she might come to know them, as though they
might tell her something of themselves, of what they felt and thought,
and even might stand listening, taking a kindly interest in what she
said. This, too, was strange, and a friendly smile became fixed upon her
face, and of those who saw it--shop-girls, women of fashion, coachmen,
clubmen, policemen--most felt a little warmth about their hearts; it was
pleasant to see on the lips of that faded lady with the silvered arching
hair under a hat whose brim turned down all round.

So Mrs. Pendyce came to Piccadilly and turned westward towards George's
club. She knew it well, for she never failed to look at the windows when
she passed, and once--on the occasion of Queen Victoria's Jubilee--had
spent a whole day there to see that royal show.

She began to tremble as she neared it, for though she did not, like the
Squire, torture her mind with what might or might not come to pass, care
had nested in her heart.

George was not in his club, and the porter could not tell her where he
was. Mrs. Pendyce stood motionless. He was her son; how could she ask
for his address? The porter waited, knowing a lady when he saw one.
Mrs. Pendyce said gently:

"Is there a room where I could write a note, or would it be----"

"Certainly not, ma'am. I can show you to a room at once."

And though it was only a mother to a son, the porter preceded her with
the quiet discretion of one who aids a mistress to her lover; and perhaps
he was right in his view of the relative values of love, for he had great
experience, having lived long in the best society.

On paper headed with the fat white "Stoics' Club," so well known on
George's letters, Mrs. Pen