all body.' In
regard to that characteristic of Becket, not even Felix in his ironies
had ever stood up to Clara; the matter was too delicate. Frances
Freeland, indeed--not because she had any philosophic preconceptions on
the matter, but because it was 'not nice, dear, to be wasteful' even if
it were only of rose-leaves, or to 'have too much decoration,' such
as Japanese prints in places where they hum--sometimes told her
daughter-in-law frankly what was wrong, without, however, making the
faintest impression upon Clara, for she was not sensitive, and, as she
said to Stanley, it was 'only Mother.'

When they had drunk that special Chinese tea, all the rage, but which
no one really liked, in the inner morning, or afternoon room--for the
drawing-rooms were too large to be comfortable except at week-ends--they
went to see the children, a special blend of Stanley and Clara, save the
little Francis, who did not seem to be entirely body. Then Clara took
them to their rooms. She lingered kindly in Nedda's, feeling that the
girl could not yet feel quite at home, and looking in the soap-dish lest
she might not have the right verbena, and about the dressing-table
to see that she had pins and scent, and plenty of 'pot-pourri,' and
thinking: 'The child is pretty--a nice girl, not like her mother.'
Explaining carefully how, because of the approaching week-end, she
had been obliged to put her in 'a very simple room' where she would be
compelled to cross the corridor to her bath, she asked her if she had a
quilted dressing-gown, and finding that she had not, left her saying she
would send one--and could she do her frocks up, or should Sirrett come?

Abandoned, the girl stood in the middle of the room, so far more
'simple' than she had ever slept in, with its warm fragrance of
rose-leaves and verbena, its Aubusson carpet, white silk-quilted bed,
sofa, cushioned window-seat, dainty curtains, and little nickel box of
biscuits on little spindly table. There she stood and sniffed, stretched
herself, and thought: 'It's jolly--only, it smells too much!' and she
went up to the pictures, one by one. They seemed to go splendidly with
the room, and suddenly she felt homesick. Ridiculous, of course! Yet, if
she had known where her father's room was, she would have run out to it;
but her memory was too tangled up with stairs and corridors--to find her
way down to the hall again was all she could have done.

A maid came in now with a blue silk go