ing--I think Mother, your
grandmother, guessed that that was to be my great evening, because she
was very particular about my dress, and I remember she sent me
upstairs again before we started, because I hadn't got the right pair
of shoes on--rather a tight pair--however, I put them on. And there
was a hansom outside the hall, and it was our last dance together, and
he said, "Shall we sit it out, Miss Bagot?" Well, of course, I was
only too glad to, and we sat it out in the hansom, driving all round
Surbiton, and what your grandmother would have said I don't know, but,
of course, I never told her. And when we got home after the dance, I
went up to her room--as soon as I'd got my shoes off--and said,
"Mother, I have some wonderful news for you," and she said, "_Not_ Mr.
Knowle--Henry?" and I said, "'M," rather bright-eyed you know, and
wanting to cry. And she said, "Oh, my darling child!" and--Jane,
where's my handkerchief? (It has dropped off the sofa and JANE picks
it up) Thank you, dear. (She dabs her eyes) Well, that's really all,
you know, except that--(she dabs her eyes again)--I'm afraid I'm
feeling rather overcome. I'm sure Dr. Anderson would say it was very
bad for me to feel overcome. Your poor dear grandmother. Jane, dear,
why did you ask me to tell you all this? I must go away and compose
myself before your uncle and Mr. Coote come in. I don't know what I
should do if Mr. Coote saw me like this. (She begins to get up) And
after calling me a Spartan Mother only yesterday, because I said that
if any nice, steady young man came along and took my own dear little
girl away from me, I should bear the terrible wrench in silence rather
than cause either of them a moment's remorse. (She is up now) There!

JANE. Shall I come with you?

MRS. KNOWLE. No, dear, not just now. Let me be by myself for a little.
(She turns back suddenly at the door) Oh! Perhaps later on, when the
men come from the dining-room, dear Jane, you might join me, with your
Uncle Henry--if the opportunity occurs. . . . But only if it occurs, of
course.

[She goes.

JANE (coming back to the sofa). Poor Aunt Mary! It always seems so
queer that one's mother and aunts and people should have had their
romances too.

MELISANDE. Do you call that romance, Jane? Tennis and subscription
dances and wearing tight shoes?

JANE (awkwardly). Well, no, darling, not romance of course, but you
know what I mean.

MELISANDE. Just think of the commonplace l