As a person of some authority, Hanlon was at liberty to go where he pleased in the establishment. One morning he paid a visit to the female wing, and asked to see Miss Ponting.
‘Good morning, Mr. Hanlon.’
‘Morning, Miss. How is she to-day?’ he went on at once, and with no little excitement in his voice.
‘Her ladyship? Like a lamb. What’s amiss, Mr. Hanlon? You look peeked.’
Miss Ponting’s duties had lain for some years with the most aristocratic patients, and she cultivated a refinement of language and a fastidiousness of expression which imposed upon no one so much as herself. But for the firm lines of her mouth and steady eye—traits which proved her fitness for her present employment—she might have been set down as a fat foolish woman of forty, with the airs and graces of girlhood, and the pretentiousness of one who sought to be considered superior to her station. She had a fine eye for the main chance, however, and this had led her to listen willingly enough to ‘the Boy’s’ blandishments. There was profit, perhaps, substantial and considerable, to be got out of the affair.
‘They’re coming over this very day,’ cried Hanlon. ‘Sir Rupert and the captain’—Joe had already given Herbert promotion, partly out of affection, and partly to impress Miss Ponting—‘and the whole kit of ’em.’
‘Well, what puts you in such a taking? We ain’t to be trampled upon like the sands of the seashore. We’re ready for anyone that chooses to come.’
‘But is she? The captain means to have her out, and so I tell you; and it’ll all depend on how they find her. Is she fit to be seen?’
‘Never was better. Her appetite’s combsar, but her manner’s quite degagy, and her temper debonnair.’
‘Will it do to prepare her? Won’t it flurry her, as when you told her of the fight on the Coast?’