As Mrs Swann was being led like a sheep out of the hall into an
apartment on the right, which the servant styled the breakfast-room,
another door opened, further up the hall, and Mrs Clayton Vernon
appeared. Magnificent though Mrs Swann was, the ample Mrs Clayton
Vernon, discreetly _décolletée_, was even more magnificent. Dressed as
she meant to show herself at the concert, Mrs Clayton Vernon made a
resplendent figure worthy to be the cousin of the leader of the
orchestra--and worthy even to take the place of the missing Countess of
Chell. Mrs Clayton Vernon had a lorgnon at the end of a shaft of
tortoise-shell; otherwise, a pair of eye-glasses on a stick. She had the
habit of the lorgnon; the lorgnon seldom left her, and whenever she was
in any doubt or difficulty she would raise the lorgnon to her eyes and
stare patronizingly. It was a gesture tremendously effective. She
employed it now on Mrs Swann, as who should say, "Who is this
insignificant and scarcely visible creature that has got into my noble
hall?" Mrs Swann stopped, struck into immobility by the basilisk glance.
A courageous and even a defiant woman, Mrs Swann was taken aback. She
could not possibly tell Mrs Clayton Vernon that she was the bearer of
hot potatoes to her son. She scarcely knew Mrs Clayton Vernon, had only
met her once at a bazaar! With a convulsive unconscious movement her
right hand clenched nervously within her muff and crushed the rich mealy
potato it held until the flesh of the potato was forced between the
fingers of her glove. A horrible sticky mess! That is the worst of a
high-class potato, cooked, as the Five Towns phrase it, "in its jacket."
It will burst on the least provocation. There stood Mrs Swann, her right
hand glued up with escaped potato, in the sober grandeur of Mrs Clayton
Vernon's hall, and Mrs Clayton Vernon bearing down upon her like a
Dreadnought.
Steam actually began to emerge from her muff.
"Ah!" said Mrs Clayton Vernon, inspecting Mrs Swann. "It's Mrs Swann!
How do you do, Mrs Swann?"
She seemed politely astonished, as well she might be. By a happy chance
she did not perceive the wisp of steam. She was not looking for steam.
People do not expect steam from the interior of a visitor's muff.
"Oh!" said Mrs Swann, who was really in a pitiable state. "I'm sorry to
trouble you, Mrs Clayton Vernon. But I want to speak to Gilbert for one
moment."
She then saw that Mrs Clayton Vernon's hand was graciously extended.
She could not take it with her right hand, which was fully engaged with
the extremely heated sultriness of the ruined potato. She could not
refuse it, or ignore it. She therefore offered her left hand, which Mrs
Clayton Vernon pressed with a well-bred pretence that people always
offered her their left hands.
"Nothing wrong, I do hope!" said she, gravely.
"Oh no," said Mrs Swann. "Only just a little matter which had been
forgotten. Only half a minute. I must hurry off at once as I have to
meet my husband. If I could just see Gilbert--"
"Certainly," said Mrs Clayton Vernon. "Do come into the breakfast-room,
will you? We've just finished dinner. We had it very early, of course,
for the concert. Mr Millwain--my cousin--hates to be hurried. Maria, be
good enough to ask Mr Swann to come here. Tell him that his mother
wishes to speak to him."
In the breakfast-room Mrs Swann was invited, nay commanded by Mrs
Clayton Vernon, to loosen her mantle. But she could not loosen her
mantle. She could do nothing. In clutching the potato to prevent bits of
it from falling out of the muff, she of course effected the precise
opposite of her purpose, and bits of the luscious and perfect potato
began to descend the front of her mantle. The clock struck seven, and
ages elapsed, during which Mrs Swann could not think of anything
whatever to say, but the finger of the clock somehow stuck motionless at
seven, though the pendulum plainly wagged.
"I'm not too warm," she said at length, feebly but obstinately resisting
Mrs Clayton Vernon's command. This, to speak bluntly, was an untruth.
She was too warm.
"Are you sure that nothing is the matter?" urged Mrs Clayton Vernon,
justifiably alarmed by the expression of her visitor's features. "I beg
you to confide in me if--"
"Not at all," said Mrs Swann, trying to laugh. "I'm only sorry to
disturb you. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"What on earth is that?" cried Mrs Clayton Vernon.
The other potato, escaping Mrs Swann's vigilance, had run out of the
muff and come to the carpet with a dull thud. It rolled half under Mrs
Swann's dress. Almost hysterically she put her foot on it, thus making
pulp of the second potato.
"What?" she inquired innocently.
"Didn't you hear anything? I trust it isn't a mouse! We have had them
once."
Mrs Clayton Vernon thought how brave Mrs Swann was, not to be frightened
by the word "mouse."
"I didn't hear anything," said Mrs Swann. Another untruth.
"If you aren't too warm, won't you come a little nearer the fire?"
But not for a thousand pounds would Mrs Swann have exposed the mush of
potato on the carpet under her feet. She could not conceive in what
ignominy the dreadful affair would end, but she was the kind of woman
that nails her colours to the mast.
"Dear me!" Mrs Clayton Vernon murmured. "How delicious those potatoes do
smell! I can smell them all over the house."
This was the most staggering remark that Mrs Swann had ever heard.
"Potatoes? very weakly.
"Yes," said Mrs Clayton Vernon, smiling. "I must tell you that Mr
Millwain is very nervous about getting his hands cold in driving to
Hanbridge. And he has asked me to have hot potatoes prepared. Isn't it
amusing? It seems hot potatoes are constantly used for this purpose in
winter by the pupils of the Royal College of Music, and even by the
professors. My cousin says that even a slight chilliness of the hands
interferes with his playing. So I am having potatoes done for your son
too. A delightful boy he is!"
"Really!" said Mrs Swann. "How queer! But what a good idea!"
She might have confessed then. But you do not know her if you think she
did. Gilbert came in, anxious and alarmed. Mrs Clayton Vernon left them
together. The mother explained matters to the son, and in an instant of
time the ruin of two magnificent potatoes was at the back of the fire.
Then, without saluting Mrs Clayton Vernon, Mrs Swann fled.