“Why, those honeymooners. I say, Lady Deane, it’s a queer thing to have a lady’s-maid to breakf—Why, by Jove, she’s with them now! Look!”
His excited interest aroused the attention of the whole party, and they looked across the long room.
“Ashforth’s their name,” concluded Laing. “I heard the Abigail call him Ashforth; and the lady is——”
He was interrupted by the clatter of a knife and fork falling on a plate. He turned in the direction whence the sound came.
Dora Bellairs leant back in her chair, her hands in her lap; Charlie Ellerton had hidden himself behind the wine-list. Lady Deane, her husband, and the General gazed inquiringly at Dora.
At the same instant there came a shrill little cry from the other end of the room. The mirror had served Mary Travers as well as it had Laing. For a moment she spoke hastily to her companion; then she and John rose, and, with radiant smiles on their faces, advanced toward their friends. The long-expected meeting had come; at last.
Dora sat still, in consternation. Charlie, peeping out from behind his menu, saw the approach.
“Now, in Heaven’s name,” he groaned, “are they married or aren’t they?” and having said this he awaited the worst.