This room, like the others, was thoroughly sheeted, and thus presented a misty and spectral appearance. All the chairs, the chandelier, and all the pictures, were masked in close-fitting pale yellow. The curtains were down, the carpet was up, and a dust sheet was spread under the table in the middle of the floor.
“Here’s some friends of yours,” said the guardian, throwing her words across the room.
In an easy chair near the fireplace sat Miss Nickall, her arm in splints and in a sling. She was very thin and very pallid, and her eyes brightly glittered. The customary kind expression of her face was modified, though not impaired, by a look of vague apprehension.
“Mind how ye handle her,” the guardian gave warning, when Nick yielded herself to be embraced.
“You’re just a bit of my Paris come to see me,” said Nick, with her American accent. Then through her tears: “How’s Tommy, and how’s Musa, and how’s—how’s my studio? Oh! This is Miss Susan Foley, sister of Jane Foley. Jane will be here for tea. Susan—Miss Ingate and Mrs. Moncreiff.”
Susan gave a grim bob.
“Is Jane Foley coming? Does she live here?” asked Miss Ingate, properly impressed by the name of her who was the St. George of Suffragism, and perhaps the most efficient of all militants. “Audrey, we are in luck!”
When Nick had gathered items of information about Paris, she burst out:
“I can’t believe I’ve only met you once before. You’re just like old friends.”
“So we are old friends,” said Audrey. “Your letters to Winnie have made us old friends.”