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Mrs St. George discharged her taxi at the upper end of Vernor Street. She had not walked down Vernor Street for some twenty years, and the last time had been when she and Alex’s father—up from the country—had stayed for a week at Fream’s Hotel. Some of the male St. Georges still put up at “Fream’s”, which had a reputation of its own, and was both new and old fashioned. Mrs St. George walked down Vernor Street on the same side as “Fream’s”, and when she came level with the two bay-trees in their green tubs, she saw her “shop” over the way. S. Greenwood, Cigar Merchant.

A tobacconist’s! The very place in which you would expect an entanglement to be staged. And as Mrs St. George paused outside Fream’s Hotel, a couple of laughing officer boys came out of Mrs Sarah’s shop. One of them waved a hand. So that was the sort of place it was, promising something fluffy and interesting behind the counter, a fly-paper of a shop. Mrs St. George—in her anger—allowed her prejudices to jump at every conclusion.

She crossed the road. Being a gentlewoman she was able to carry her anger as a gentleman should carry his liquor. She entered the shop, and both shop and divan happened to be empty. Corah was behind the counter.

“Mrs Greenwood’s—I think?”

Corah observed her with shrewdness.

“Yes.”

“Miss Greenwood lives here?”

“I’m Miss Greenwood.”

“Miss Kitty Greenwood?”

“No,—that’s my sister. But her name is St. George.”

“So I have heard. I am Mrs St. George.”

Corah might be dusky and languid, but she was no fool. It was impossible for a daughter of Mrs Sarah’s to be a fool. She had discussed possible happenings with her mother, and she smiled, and came round from behind the counter.

“Alex’s mother. I’m so glad.”

Mrs St. George stared. This elder Greenwood girl had what Mrs St. George called “a good appearance”; and she was neither embarrassed nor too polite.

“It’s your sister whom I wish to see.”

Corah’s smile died away, but her placidity remained.

“I am afraid that Kitty is out for the moment, but she will be back any minute. My mother is upstairs. I know that she will be glad to see you.”

“Yes,—I think that I had better see your mother.”

She pivoted slowly, surveying the shop. Her blue glance penetrated to the divan. Red cushions? Ah, of course! Red cushions! Exactly! And then, a Major-General in a hurry, entering with elderly cheer, fractured that icy silence.

“O,—Corah—my dear—a box of ‘Green Howards’.”

He looked at the lady, and he looked at Miss Greenwood, and catching the frost from them, he stood very stiffly waiting for his cigarettes.

“Put them down to me,—please.”

He departed, and Corah spoke to Mrs St. George, but without looking at her.

“General Charteris is an old friend of ours. Now, will you come upstairs, please?”

Mrs St. George was silent, but her silence answered—“I—quite—understand.”