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“Yes, ma’am; but——”

“Does he live in London?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sally was trembling a little.

“Better write to-morrow and ask him to come to tea on Sunday. Suppose there’s room in that ridiculous kitchen for you both?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Sally’s voice was joyful.

“Better buy some cake to-morrow. Gingerbread, plum cake, anything you like. Don’t loiter now. Get to bed like a good girl.”

And Sally fled, feeling that Miss Mason was a winged angel in an odd disguise.

Half an hour later Miss Mason herself went to her bedroom. It was dainty and charming. The curtains before the window were white muslin, with outer curtains of white dimity and borders of tiny pink rosebuds. The quilt covering the bed was white like the curtains, it also had a border of pink rosebuds. The carpet was cream-coloured, the furniture Chippendale.

When Miss Mason was ready for bed she knelt down, her hands folded on the rosebud-covered quilt. The old petitions of childhood, still used by the woman of sixty years, failed her for the first time.