As soon as she had thought of this, she rang for her maid, and dressed in the wildest hurry, as though she had to catch a train: leaving her tray on the little table untouched, the maid running after her to fasten hooks, and buttons, to stick in pins, and tie ribbons, as though they were playing a game.
Mary won. She was flying out of the room when the maid ran after her, saying:
“Madame, your tortoiseshell comb is falling out of your hair; won’t you let me finish dressing it?”
“Don’t worry, Searle. What does it matter?”
She flew downstairs.
Nigel looked up with that intense surprise that no one can succeed in disguising as the acutest pleasure.
“Well, by Jove,” he said, in his quick way, which was so cool and casual that it almost had the effect of a drawl. He looked at her closely, and said reassuringly:
“After all, it may not be true; and if it is, it may be for the best.”
“What may not be true, Nigel. What do you mean?”
“Why, this sudden bad news.”