A dapper man-servant (hired) next came upon the scene, and his astonishment was no less profound, though more skilfully concealed. He looked politely at Madeline, and said in his most proper and parrot-like tone of voice, “Who shall I say, ma’am?”
“Say,” returned the young lady, giving her fringe a little pat, her chiffon frill a little twitch, and smiling slightly all the time, “say Miss West.”
“Miss West!” bawled the waiter, flinging the door open with a violence that nearly tore it from its ancient hinges, and then stood back, eager to witness the effect of his announcement on the company.
Madeline was scarcely less surprised than they were. She beheld a round table, decorated with flowers, wax candles, and coloured shades—really, a most civilized-looking little table—the room well lit up, its shabbiness concealed by the tender rose-coloured light, looking quite venerable and respectable, and, seated at table, Laurence and two other men—one of whom she knew! Horror! This was a great deal more than she had bargained for. She had never dreamt of dropping in thus upon a cosy little bachelor party!
And who shall paint their amazement? They were talking away, just between the soup and fish, and Wynne had been regretting the absence through illness of Mr. Jessop, whose vacant place awaited him. There had been a little professional discussion, an allusion to a big race, a society scandal, a commendation of some excellent dry sherry, and they were all most genial and comfortable, when the door was flung wide open, and “Miss West” was announced in a stentorian voice.
And who the deuce was Miss West? thought the two guests. All looked up and beheld a lady—a young lady—in full evening dress, and literally blazing with diamonds, standing rather doubtfully just within the doorway. Laurence Wynne felt as if he was turned to stone.
“Madeline!” he ejaculated under his breath. Madeline, looking like a fairy princess—but surely Madeline gone mad?
What could he say—what could he do? He might cut the Gordian knot by explaining, “Gentlemen, this beautiful girl, who has dropped, as it were, from the skies, is Mrs. Wynne—my wife”—if she had not heralded her entrance by her maiden name. He might have done this, but now, as matters stood, his lips were sealed. He must take some step immediately. His friends and the waiter were staring at him expectantly. They evidently thought that there had been a mistake.
“Miss West!” he said, suddenly pushing back his chair and rising. “This is, indeed, an unexpected honour. What can I do for you? There is nothing wrong at—at home, I hope?” now approaching her, and shaking hands.
“No, no,” trying to speak calmly, and casting wildly about for some plausible excuse. “I thought I should have found you alone.” Then, colouring violently, “I—I mean disengaged, and I wished to consult you on some—some family business.”