His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. All four people moved a little nervously into the drawing-room, maintaining a sort of fluttered amiability of sound and movement. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. "No friend like the mother, for the babby knows no other.
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