"But we have often met at Oxford," observed Malcolm smilingly. And
then he coloured slightly and continued in an embarrassed voice, "I
am afraid, my dear fellow, that you have rather wondered that you
have not been invited to No. 27 Queen's Gate; but, as I once
explained to you, the house belongs to my mother."

"Just as the Wood House belongs to Dinah and Elizabeth," returned
Cedric.

"Ah, just so; but there is a difference. My mother is not quite like
other ladies. Her life, and I may say the greater part of her
fortune, are devoted to charitable objects. If I had invited you to
stay with us you would have been simply bored to death. Amusement,
social obligations, the duties we owe to society, do not belong to
my mother's creed at all. If I might borrow a word from a renowned
novelist, I would call her 'a charitable grinder,' for she grinds
from morning till night at a never-ceasing wheel of committees,
meetings, and Heaven knows what besides."

"She reminds me of the immortal Mrs. Jellyby," observed Cedric
airily; but Malcolm shook his head.

"No, there is no resemblance. My mother is a clear-headed, practical
woman. She manages her house herself, and the domestic machinery
goes like clockwork. The servants know their duty and do their work
well; and I have heard our old nurse say that one could eat off the
floor; but in spite of all this the word 'comfort' does not enter my
mother's vocabulary."

"Good gracious! Herrick."