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“So your butler has just told me. I certainly said today in my
letter. Mrs. Tower recovered her wits.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m very glad to see you whenever you
come. Fortunately I'm doing nothing this evening.”
“You mustn’t let me give you any trouble. If I can have a
boiled egg for my dinner, that’s all I shall want.”
A faint grimace for a moment distorted Mrs. Tower’s
handsome features. A boiled egg!
“Oh, I think we can do a little better than that.”
I chuckled inwardly when I recollected that the two ladies were
contemporaries. Mrs. Fowler looked a good fifty-five. She was a
rather big woman; she wore a black straw hat with a wide brim and
from it a black lace veil hung over her shoulders, a cloak that oddly
combined severity with fussiness, a long black dress, voluminous as
though she wore several petticoats under it, and stout boots. She was
evidently short-sighted, for she looked at you through large gold-
rimmed spectacles.
“Won’t you have a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Tower.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’ll take off my mantle.”
She began by stripping her hands of the black gloves she wore,
and then took off her cloak. Round her neck was a solid gold chain
from which hung a large gold locket in which I felt certain was a
photograph of her deceased husband. Then she took off her hat and
placed it neatly with her gloves and cloak on the sofa corner. Mrs.
Tower pursed her lips. Certainly those garments did not go very well
with the austere but sumptuous beauty of Mrs. Tower’s redecorated
drawing-room. I wondered where on earth Mrs. Fowler had found the
extraordinary clothes she wore. They were not old, and the materials
were expensive. It was astounding to think that dressmakers still
made things that had not been worn for a quarter of a century. Mrs.
Fowler’s grey hair was very plainly done, showing all her forehead
and her ears, with a parting in the middle. It had evidently never
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known the tongs of Monsieur Marcel . Now her eyes fell on the tea-
table with its teapot of Georgian silver and its cups in old Worcester.
“What have you done with the tea-cosy I gave you last time I
came up, Marion?” she asked. “Don’t you use it?”

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Monsieur Marcel - перукар