No Wind of Blame

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"The Prince is coming by the one-forty-five. That means he'll be here in time for tea. Well, I do call that nice!"

No answer being made to this remark, the lady at the head of the table repeated it, adding: "I'm sure you'll like him. He's such a gentleman, if you know what I mean."

Miss Cliffe raised her eyes from her own correspondence. "Sorry, Aunt Ermyntrude: I wasn't attending. The Prince - oh yes! Then the big car will be wanted to meet the train. I'll see to it."

"Yes, do, dearie." Mrs. Carter restored the Prince's letter to its envelope, and stretched out a plump arm towards the toast-rack. She was a large woman, who had enjoyed, in youth, the advantages of golden hair and a pink-and-white complexion. Time had committed some ravages with both these adjuncts, but a lavish use of peroxide and the productions of a famous beauty specialist really worked wonders. If the gold of Ermyntrude's carefully waved hair was a trifle metallic, the colour in her cheeks was all and more than it had ever been. Artificial light was kinder to her than the daylight, but she never allowed this tiresome fact to worry her, applying her rouge each morning with a lavish yet skilled hand which recalled the days when she had adorned the front row of the chorus; and touching up her lashes with mascara, or (in her more dashing moments) with a species of vivid blue that was supposed to deepen the perfectly natural blue of her eyes.

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