CHAPTER XXII
THE DETECTIVE
Audrey and Miss Ingate were writing letters to Paris. Jane Foley had gone forth again to a committee meeting, which was understood to be closely connected with a great Liberal demonstration shortly to be held in a Midland fortress of Liberalism. Miss Nickall, in accordance with medical instructions, had been put to bed. Susan Foley was in the basement, either clearing up tea or preparing supper.
Miss Ingate, putting her pen between her teeth and looking up from a blotting-pad, said to Audrey across the table:
“Are you writing to Musa?”
“Certainly not!” said Audrey, with fire. “Why should I write to Musa?” She added: “But you can write to him, if you like.”
“Oh! Can I?” observed Miss Ingate, grinning.
Audrey knew of no reason why she should blush before Miss Ingate, yet she began to blush. She resolved not to blush; she put all her individual force into the enterprise of resisting the tide of blood to her cheeks, but the tide absolutely ignored her, as the tide of ocean might have ignored her.
She rose from the table, and, going into a corner, fidgeted with the electric switches, turning certain additional lights off and on.