Barraclough
knew that as soon as she heard that sound there would be just time to
walk down the garden path and be at the gate to welcome the arrival.
With the car one could never get there soon enough and to her way of
thinking the hospitality of a house should be offered at the entrance
to its grounds. She liked to stand under the arboured gate with
extended hands and from there to speak the first welcoming words and
then to link arms and lead the visitor indoors with promises of tea or
fires in bedrooms and little kindly appreciations of the fatigue of
travelling. She would as soon have omitted any of these gentle rites
as have neglected to satisfy herself that the sheets were properly
aired or the carpets swept beneath the beds.

Of course, with Isabel the welcome extended beyond the mere taking of
hands. There is a proper way of embracing your son's affianced wife;
that is, of course, if you happen to be of the same period as Mrs.
Barraclough. A kiss on the forehead, one on each cheek, an examination
at arm's length, and finally, after a perfect duck of a shared smile
and a murmured "my dear," the gentlest kiss imaginable on the extreme
point of the chin. It is at once a tribute and an acceptance--the
cashier's neat initial that honours your signature to a cheque drawn on
the account of happiness.

Alas, that some of our modern mothers have lost the knack of this
pretty exchange. Their greeting is of a harsher tone. They bridge the
separating gulf between youth and age with talk of Auction. They speak
to the girl of "making a four" after dinner when the only real concern
is that she should make a two that is spiritually one. And because
this is so the modern mother will remain more often "in-law" than in
heart, which is a very great pity indeed.

They had never met before but Isabel knew at the first touch of those
sweet prim lips that Anthony's mother was also hers--was also a
darling--was also a trump--was also every kind of good thing that she
ought to be.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came," she gasped. "It won't be half so bad with
you to help me wait."

And Mrs. Barraclough, who hadn't the smallest idea what she was talking
about, nodded and replied:

"Of course not, my dear, of course not."

Inside the drawing room tea was waiting on a silver tray, with a silver
kettle throwing out a hiss of silver steam. Never had Isabel seen any
silver that was as bright as this. It shone with the innocent lust