rce when she found herself
left alone in Lucy's morning-room, which was a bright room opening out
upon the flower garden, getting all the morning sun, and the full
advantage of the flowers when there were any. There were none, it is
true, at this moment, except a few snow-drops forcing their way through
the smooth turf under a tree which stood at the corner of a little bit
of lawn. Lady Randolph was not very fond of flowers, except in their
proper place, which meant when employed in the decoration of rooms in
the proper artistic way, and after the most approved fashion. Thus she
liked sunflowers when they were approved by society, and modest violets
and pansies in other developments of popular taste, but did not for her
own individual part care much which she had, so long as they looked well
in her vases, and "came well" against her draperies and furniture. She
had come down on this bright morning with her work, as it is the proper
thing for a lady to do, but she had no more idea of being left here
calmly and undisturbed to do that work than she had of attempting a
flight into the inviting and brilliant, if cold and frosty, skies. She
sat down with it between the fire and the sunny window, enjoying both
without being quite within the range of either. It was an ideal picture
of a lady no longer young or capable of much out-door life, or personal
emotion; a pretty room; a sunny, soft winter morning, almost as warm as
summer, the sunshine pouring in, a cheerful fire in the background to
make up what was lacking in respect of warmth; the softest of easiest
chairs, yet not too low or demoralising; a subdued sound breaking in now
and then from a distance, which pleasantly betrayed the existence of a
household; and in the midst of all, in a velvet gown, which was very
pretty to look at, and very comfortable to wear, and with a lace cap on
her head that had the same characteristics, a lady of sixty, in perfect
health, rich enough for all her requirements, without even the thought
of a dentist to trouble her. She had a piece of very pretty work in her
hand, the newspapers on the table, books within reach. And yet she was
not content! What a delightful ideal sketch might not be made of such a
moment! How she might have been thinking of her past, sweetly, with a
sigh, yet with a thankful thought of all the good things that had been
hers; of those whom she had loved, and who were gone from earth, as only
awaiting her a little farther