work fall on her lap; and above all, of
thinking, as she was forced to do, from sheer want of occupation. She
listened, and nobody came. Two or three times she thought she heard
steps approaching, but nobody came. She had thought of perhaps going out
since the morning was so fine, walking down to the village, which was
quite within her powers, and of planning several calls which might be
made in the afternoon to take advantage of the fine day. But she became
really fretted and annoyed as the morning crept along. Lucy was losing
even her politeness, the Dowager thought. This is what comes of what
people call happiness! They get so absorbed in themselves, there is no
possibility of paying ordinary attention to other people. At last, after
completely tiring herself out, Lady Randolph got up and put down her
work altogether, throwing it away with anger. She had not lived so long
in its sole company for years, and there is no describing how tired she
was of it. She got up and went out into the other rooms in search of
something to amuse her. Little Tom had just come in, but she did not go
to the nursery. She took care not to expose herself to that. She was
willing to allow that she did not understand babies; and then to see
such a pale little thing the heir of the Randolphs worried her. He ought
to have been a little Hercules; it wounded her that he was so puny and
pale. She went through the great drawing-room, and looked at all the
additions to the furniture and decorations that Tom and Lucy had made.
They had kept a number of the old things; but naturally they had added a
good deal of _bric-a-brac_, of old things that here were new. Then Lady
Randolph turned into the library. She had gone up to one of the
bookcases, and was leisurely contemplating the books, with a keen eye,
too, to the additions which had been made, when she heard a sound near
her, the unmistakable sound of turning over the leaves of a book. Lady
Randolph turned round with a start, and there was Jock, sunk into the
depths of a large chair with a tall folio supported on the arms of it.
She had not seen him when she came in, and, indeed, many people might
have come and gone without perceiving him, buried in his corner. Lady
Randolph was thankful for anybody to talk to, even a boy.

"Is it you?" she said. "I might have known it could be nobody but you.
Do you never do anything but read?"

"Sometimes," said Jock, who had done nothing but watch her since she