IT is a glorious winter's day. The sky is clear, the frost is hard, the
ice bears for skating.
The dining-room of the ancient mansion called Mablethorpe House,
situated in the London suburb of Kensington, is famous among artists
and other persons of taste for the carved wood-work, of Italian origin,
which covers the walls on three sides. On the fourth side the march of
modern improvement has broken in, and has va ried and brightened the
scene by means of a conservatory, forming an entrance to the room
through a winter-garden of rare plants and flowers. On your right hand,
as you stand fronting the conservatory, the monotony of the paneled wall
is relieved by a quaintly patterned door of old inlaid wood, leading
into the library, and thence, across the great hall, to the other
reception-rooms of the house. A corresponding door on the left hand
gives access to the billiard-room, to the smoking-room next to it,
and to a smaller hall commanding one of the secondary entrances to the
building. On the left side also is the ample fireplace, surmounted by
its marble mantelpiece, carved in the profusely and confusedly ornate
style of eighty years since. To the educated eye the dining-room, with
its modern furniture and conservatory, its ancient walls and doors,
and its lofty mantelpiece (neither very old nor very new), presents a
startling, almost a revolutionary, mixture of the decorative workmanship
of widely differing schools. To the ignorant eye the one result
produced is an impression of perfect luxury and comfort, united in the
friendliest combination, and developed on the largest scale.
The clock has just struck two. The table is spread for luncheon.
The persons seated at the table are three in number. First, Lady Janet
Roy. Second, a young lady who is her reader and companion. Third, a
guest staying in the house, who has already appeared in these pages
under the name of Horace Holmcroft--attached to the German army as war
correspondent of an English newspaper.
Lady Janet Roy needs but little introduction. Everybody with the
slightest pretension to experience in London society knows Lady Janet
Roy.
Who has not heard of her old lace and her priceless rubies? Who has not
admired her commanding figure, her beautifully dressed white hair, her
wonderful black eyes, which still preserve their youthful brightness,
after first opening on the world seventy years since? Who has not felt
the charm of her frank, easily flowing talk, her inexhaustible spirits,
her good-humored, gracious sociability of manner? Where is the modern
hermit who is not familiarly acquainted, by hearsay at least, with
the fantastic novelty and humor of her opinions; with her generous
encouragement of rising merit of any sort, in all ranks, high or low;
with her charities, which know no distinction between abroad and at
home; with her large indulgence, which no ingratitude can discourage,
and no servility pervert? Everybody has heard of the popular old
lady--the childless widow of a long-forgotten lord. Everybody knows Lady
Janet Roy.