As the last words died away, one of the audience gave himself a vigorous shake, carefully examined his half-finished cigar, and exclaimed:
“By George! that young woman must be in a bad way—eh? I wonder who she is? She is singing like one of those sirens that bothered old what’s-his-name. Shall we clap—eh?”
“No,” with prompt emphasis, “the girl is singing—and her voice is exquisite—like some unhappy soul who has lost everything in the world.”
“Oh, Bosh! you and your romantic fancies! Come along indoors and have a game of billiards. I’ll give you twenty up! There will be no more songs,—see, she has turned down the light.”
“All right, I see,” agreed the man of sentiment, as he reluctantly followed his challenger.
The morning after this incident, a letter from Frances Lumley not only distracted Letty’s thoughts, but carried her away from Maythorne. The stimulating news, which was in the postscript, said:
“I have just heard that little Cara and her new nurse have gone to Folkestone. The child had measles, but is now quite well; however, Doctor Griffen ordered sea air and change. Last time I saw her she was prettier than ever, and looked like a little angel.”
Within five minutes Cara’s mother was whirling over the pages of an A B C. She too would go to Folkestone and see her baby at all hazards. A new nurse—what a chance! She wired for rooms at one of the hotels, packed up her boxes, paid her bill, and the following day effected an early departure, arriving at Folkestone the same evening. Here at least, she would be breathing the same air as her darling.
An early hour the next morning found Mrs. Glyn on the Leas, and as the month happened to be July these were crowded. For two whole days, among nurses and perambulators, she sought in vain for Cara. At last, in a block near the band shelter, she descried her treasure—attended by a buxom nurse, with a gaudy magazine tucked under her arm; Letty hovered around, or paced to and fro, till at last nurse and pram moved slowly away, and she, following at a discreet distance, discovered that they lodged in rooms not far from her own hotel. Her next move was to endeavour to make the nurse’s acquaintance, and this she accomplished by sitting beside her on a bench overlooking the sea, and offering timid remarks about the weather, and admiration of the sleeping child.
The nurse (with visions of Sharsley to support her) was inclined to be haughty and stand-off, but when she had scrutinised the young lady, and her well-cut costume, her pretty hat, and good new gloves, she thawed so far as to admit that the ‘weather was a treat,’ and to accept the loan of an illustrated paper.