The bearer, who was now positively at his wits' end with three ladies to provide for—as well as all their retinue to house—was almost in despair. However, he provided soup, a stew, and anchovy toast. Meanwhile the new arrivals conferred together in hissing whispers.
"Well," said Mrs. Flant, "I would not have believed it. I'll never trust a man again."
To which announcement her sister replied with a snort:
"Yes; and, of all people, Major Gascoigne—a sort of monk, whom all the world believes to be a hardworking recluse, and to only tolerate women when he comes down to Marwar. That he should have—this person—hidden away——"
"Well, we must just put a good face on it," said Mrs. Flant philosophically, "and be civil—any port in a storm, you know."
"Did you notice her gown?" said her sister, speaking, as it were, in italics. "It must have cost a fortune—simple—yet so French; and look at her dressing-case," and Miss Ball cast up her eyes in pious horror.
After the ladies had reappeared in the "person's" garments, refreshments were brought in, to which they paid serious attention. They partook of whiskies and sodas, began to recover from their fright and their astonishment, and found their tongues.
"You never saw anything like the road between this and Shiram's," remarked Mrs. Flant.
"Oh, I think I can imagine it," replied Angel, "as I came over part of that way this morning."
"You? Not really?" in an incredulous key.