“No,” said Mr. Priestley at once; “of course not.” He also rose and hovered uneasily.
Laura made her way, with somewhat uncertain steps, to the wash-stand, where she contemplated herself in the mirror with watery eyes. “Oh, my hat, what a ghastly fright!” was her verdict, and clinging to the marble edge, she collapsed again.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Mr. Priestley of the wardrobe opposite, hearing with dismay these renewed sounds of distress behind him.
“Y-yes, quite,” quavered Laura. “Please go down now. I’ll follow as soon as I’ve sponged my face. I’m sorry I made such an idiot of myself. I’m—oh, dear, I positively ache all over!” she collapsed over the wash-stand again.
“I shall be up again to see how you are if you’re not down in five minutes,” warned Mr. Priestley from the doorway, and made a somewhat relieved escape.
Just outside the door he all but collided with the landlady, who had a broom in her hand and an intense expression on her face.
“Oh, sir,” said the landlady at once, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but hear, seeing as I was sweeping outside. Poor young lady! If you’ll take my advice, sir (and no offence meant, I’m sure) you’ll let her off lightly at first. She’ll love you all the better for it later on. I’ve been through it meself, and I know.”
Mr. Priestley fled.
“May I go in to do the room now, sir?” the landlady called after him, a world of emphatic meaning in her penultimate word.
Mr. Priestley fled faster.