“But then, dear Gwen, you remember that Danford said we should be followed in our social reforms by all the cads that surround us.”
“Yes, I daresay, but it will be a long time before that happens, and I have done my little work of reform personally, by dismissing my maid, and by sending all my wardrobe to poor gentlewomen. This old shabby dress is the only one I have worn for two months. Ah! Lionel, I am ashamed at appearing before you in such an indecent thing as a dress—but you know, we cannot reform the world too abruptly, and besides I was afraid Sir Edward might give me in charge!” and they both laughed heartily. It did him good to recall the old jokes, and his face brightened as he watched Gwen pirouetting round the room.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Temple came in with Gwendolen’s luncheon, which he placed on the table. He handed to her on a silver tray a bundle of letters and cards.
“How funny to see letters again,” said Lionel. “Who are they from?”
“A card from the Duke of Saltburn—Lord Petersham—”
“Oh! I must ask the old fellow if he is accustomed to sitting next to his butcher on the Board of Public Kitchens! Who next, Gwen?”
“There is your pet aversion, Joe Watson, with solicitous inquiries.”
“Gwen, I misjudged the old draper. There is a deal of good behind his insular self-consciousness.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Little Montagu Vane came to ask how you were!”
“Beg pardon, Miss,” broke in the conscientious valet, “Mr Vane never came himself, he sent round a messenger boy.”
“Oh! how good, just like him,” said Lionel; “he is a _dilettante_ even in sympathy, and prefers to get his information indirectly.”
“There are letters from Mrs Webster, from Mrs Archibald.”
“What can they want?” interrupted the patient. “These letters are of no earthly use; the first wants my subscription for some charity fraud, the second needs my name for some social parade. Throw them in the waste-paper basket.”
“Mrs Pottinger also sent her card,” went on Gwen, as she dropped the cards and letters one by one on the table.
“Excuse me, Miss,” again said Temple, “I forgot to say that Mrs Pottinger came to inquire everyday; and yesterday she left a small parcel which I put on the hall table.”
“Let us see what she says on her card,” and Gwen read the following words: “‘Mrs Pottinger hopes that Lord Somerville will accept and use the small pocket battery which accompanies this card. One of the most renowned New York surgeons has invented this wonderful brain restorer, and Mrs P. trusts Lord Somerville will give the discovery a fair trial, and that he will patronise the inventor and the invention.’”