“Very,” said Peel-Swynnerton, with sincerity. “I was quite—”
At that moment, a tall straight woman of uncertain age pushed open the principal door and stood for an instant in the doorway. Peel-Swynnerton had just time to notice that she was handsome and pale, and that her hair was black, and then she was gone again, followed by a clipped poodle that accompanied her. She had signed with a brief gesture to one of the servants, who at once set about lighting the gas-jets over the table.
“Who is that?” asked Peel-Swynnerton, without reflecting that it was now he who was making advances to the fellow whose napkin covered all his shirt-front.
“That’s the missis, that is,” said Mr. Mardon, in a lower and semi-confidential voice.
“Oh! Mrs. Frensham?”
“Yes. But her real name is Scales,” said Mr. Mardon, proudly.
“Widow, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“And she runs the whole show?”
“She runs the entire contraption,” said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; “and don’t you make any mistake!” He was getting familiar.