s long as she was able. She did not say anything
more on the subject for some days. It was not, indeed, until she had
been a week at the Hall that, being disturbed by the appeals of Lucy as
to whether she did not think baby was looking better than when she came,
she burst forth at last. They were sitting by themselves in the hour
after dinner when ladies have the drawing-room all to themselves. It is
supposed by young persons in novels to be a very dreary interval, but to
the great majority of women it is a pleasant moment. The two ladies sat
before the pleasant fire; Lucy with some fleecy white wool in her lap
with which she was knitting something for her child, Lady Randolph with
a screen interposed between her and the fire, doing nothing, an
operation which she always performed gracefully and comfortably. It
could not be said that the gentlemen were lingering over their wine.
Jock had retired to the library, where he was working through all the
long-collected literary stores of the Randolph family, with an
instinctive sense that his presence in the drawing-room was not desired.
Sir Tom had business to do, or else he was tired of the domestic calm.
The ladies had been sitting for some time in silence when Lady Randolph
suddenly broke forth--

"You know what I said to you the first evening, Lucy? I have not said a
word on the subject since--of course I didn't come down here to enjoy
your hospitality and then to find fault."

"Oh, Aunt Randolph! don't speak of hospitality; it is your own house."

"My dear, it is very pretty of you to say so. I hope I am not the sort
of person to take advantage of it. But I feel a sort of responsibility,
seeing it was I that brought you together first. Lucy, I must tell you.
You are not doing what you ought by Tom. Here he is, a middle-aged man,
you know, and one of the first in the county. People look to him for a
great many things: he is the member: he is a great landowner: he is
(thanks to you) very well off. And here is Christmas, and not a visitor
in the house but myself. Oh, there's Jock! a schoolboy home for his
holidays--that does not count; not a single dinner that I can hear
of----"

"Yes, aunt, on the 6th," said Lucy, with humility.

"On the 6th, and it is now the 27th! and no fuss at all made about
Christmas. My dear, you needn't tell me it's a bore. I know it is a
bore--everywhere wherever one goes; still, everybody does it. It is just
a part of one's responsibilities.