She tossed the skin back again into the gutter. “In any case,” she said, “the young lady can wait while we have luncheon.”
Gumbril shook his head. “I’ve made the arrangement,” he said. Emily’s letter was in his pocket. She had taken the loveliest cottage just out of Robertsbridge, in Sussex. Ah, but the loveliest imaginable. For the whole summer. He could come and see her there. He had telegraphed that he would come to-day, this afternoon, by the two o’clock from Charing Cross.
Mrs. Viveash took him by the elbow. “Come along,” she said. “There’s a post office in that passage going from Jermyn Street to Piccadilly. You can wire from there your infinite regrets. These things always improve with a little keeping. There will be raptures when you do go to-morrow.”
Gumbril allowed himself to be led along. “What an insufferable woman you are,” he said, laughing.
“Instead of being grateful to me for asking you to luncheon!”
“Oh, I am grateful,” said Gumbril. “And astonished.”
He looked at her. Mrs. Viveash smiled and fixed him for a moment with her pale, untroubled eyes.... She said nothing.
“Still,” Gumbril went on, “I must be at Charing Cross by two, you know.”
“But we’re lunching at Verrey’s.”
Gumbril shook his head.