"Oh, but I am!"
"Another spinster lady on my conscience! I shall certainly end in the dock!" Lord Semingham took his hat and shook hands. Just as he got to the door, he turned round, and, with an expression of deprecating helplessness, fired a last shot. "Ruston came to see Bessie the other day," he said. "The new mantle she's just invented is to be called—the Omofaga: That is unless she changes it because of the moor. I suggested the Pis-aller, but she didn't see it. She never does, you know. Good-bye."
The moment he was gone, Adela put on her hat and drove to Curzon Street. She found Mrs. Dennison alone, and opened fire at once.
"What have you done, Maggie?" she cried, flinging her gloves on the table and facing her friend with accusing countenance.
Mrs. Dennison was smelling a rose; she smelt it a little longer, and then replied with another question.
"Why can't men hate quietly? They must make a fuss. I can go on hating a woman for years and never show it."
"We have the vices of servility," said Adela.
"Harry is a melancholy sight," resumed Mrs. Dennison. "He spends his time looking for the blotting-paper; Tom Loring used to keep it, you know."
Her tone deepened the expression of disapproval on Adela's face.
"I've never been so distressed about anything in my life," said she.