on, and of those about her, with such a
tender commendation of them to God's blessing, and cordial desire for
their happiness, as would have reached the height of a prayer. And she
might have been feeling a tranquil pleasure in the material things about
her: the stillness, the warmth, the dreamy quiet, even the pretty work,
and the exemption from care which she had arrived at in the peaceful
concluding chapter of existence. This is what we all like to think of as
the condition of mind and circumstances in which age is best met. But we
are grieved to say that this was not in the least Lady Randolph's pose.
Anything more distasteful to her than this quiet could not be. It was
her principle and philosophy to live in the present. She drew many
experiences from the past, and a vast knowledge of the constitutions and
changes of society; but personally it did not amuse her to think of it,
and the future she declined to contemplate. It had disagreeable things
in it, of that there could be no doubt; and why go out and meet the
disagreeable? It was time enough when it arrived. There was probably
illness, and certainly dying, in it; things which she was brave enough
to face when they came, and no doubt would encounter in quite a
collected and courageous way. But why anticipate them? She lived
philosophically in the day as it came. After all whatever you do or
think, you cannot do much more. Your one day, your hour, is your world.
Acquit yourself fitly in that, and you will be able to encounter
whatever occurs.

This was the conviction on which Lady Randolph acted. But her pursuit
for the moment was not entertaining; she very quickly tired of her work.
Work is, on the whole, tiresome when there is no particular use in it,
when it is done solely for the sake of occupation, as ladies' work so
often is. It wants a meaning and a necessity to give it interest, and
Lady Randolph's had neither. She worked about ten minutes, and then she
paused and wondered what could have become of Lucy. Lucy was not a very
amusing companion, but she was somebody; and then Sir Tom would come in
occasionally to consult her, to give her some little piece of
information, and for a few minutes would talk and give his relative a
real pleasure. But even Lucy did not come; and soon Lady Randolph became
tired of looking out of the window and then walking to the fire, of
taking up the newspaper and throwing it down again, of doing a few
stitches, then letting the