WHITEWASH
the disarray of the tea-things. Her eyes were pupilled by two points of interrogation as she glanced toward Philippa. but she greeted the caller with formal grace. There was something of the drum-major about the lady. One expected to see her swing her gold-knobbed parasol, toss it above her voluminous head-dress to catch it again and spin it solemnly on the tip of her too tightly gloved fingers. She was tall, stout, florid. If she had been born a century earlier she would have been a loud-mouthed, gambling duchess; now she suggested only the drum-major.
Seating herself upon the uttermost edge of a chair, the better to maintain the upright dignity of her carriage, she smiled slowly and wisely.
"My dear, a fresh cup, please. I am faint, positively. I drove round the Park and stopped at the Tredways. They must get their tea from a bargain-counter. I really could not touch it."
Philippa, with commendable sang-froid, concocted a well-rummed beverage.
"Victoria Claudel has just been here," she announced, gaily.
