Their mutual aloofness irritated her more than she allowed to be seen, and the moment approached when she could no longer endure such playing with her serious purposes.
She knew that she had committed an imprudence in coming to London and entering, however moderately, into the excitements of the season.

A day or two sufficed to prove the danger she was incurring; but she refused to take count of symptoms.

With a weakness which did not lack its pathos, she had, for the first time in her life, put what she called "a touch of colour" onto her cheeks, and the result so pleased her that she all but forgot the artificiality of this late bloom; each morning, when her maid had performed the office, she viewed herself with satisfaction, and was even heard to remark that London evidently did her good.

Lady Ogram tried to believe that even age and disease were amenable to her control.
She consulted doctors--for the form; behaving with cold civility during their visit, and scornfully satirising them when they were gone.

None the less did she entertain friends at luncheon or dinner, and often talked to them as if years of activity and enjoyment lay before her.
"Wonderful old lady!" was the remark of most who left her presence; but some exchanged glances and let fall ominous words.
On the evening when May and Constance were at the crush in Pont Street, she would not go to bed, but lay on a couch in her chamber, occasionally dozing, more often wide awake and quivering with the agitation of her mind.