“Well, it said that the horse fell on her”—sitting down, and apparently anxious to thresh out the subject at her leisure.
“Miss Hayes,” he said, turning to me, “I shall hope to see you again before you leave.”
He hesitated, reluctant to depart: he had so much to say to me! Then he shook hands, and, with an extremely cool bow to my visitor, walked out of the room. As the door closed after him, she jumped to her feet and cried—
“I saw him coming in. He has been here fully twenty minutes! It’s not at all comme il faut to be receiving men. I knew you would be dreadfully uncomfortable, and so I trotted over. He had no business to call on you. He is a most overbearing-looking young man, and I can’t abide him! He always seems as if he didn’t see me. What brought him? What did he want—eh?”
Oh, this woman—with her pitiless curiosity, her keen little questioning eyes, coming just after my late most trying interview—was quite insupportable! I could have stood up and screamed. I was overwrought, fagged, heartsore. I had had nothing to eat all day but a cup of tea and a slice of toast, for Lady Hildegarde’s pro-luncheon visit had effectually destroyed my appetite for my humble meal.
Still, I struggled for composure and forbearance, and offered a blank wall of impenetrability to Mrs. Gabb and Miss Skuce’s storm of questions; for Mrs. Gabb had entered with the tea-tray, and a friendly determination to know “what brought young Mr. Somers at that hour of the night?”
“It is but barely five,” I answered; “and he came to pay me a visit of condolence. He knew Mrs. Hayes very well in India.”
“It’s a most unusual thing,” said Miss Skuce, suspiciously. “I wonder what his mother would say to it?”
At last I got rid of my pair of tormentors. They found that I was indisposed to be communicative. I pleaded (with truth) that I had a dreadful headache. So they departed together—to wonder, suggest, protest, and to discuss me, whilst I turned down the lamp, threw myself on the sofa, and cried comfortably for a couple of hours.