“Is that you, Letty?” she called out. “What makes you so late? Come here, my dear!”
Aunt Dorothy was apparently in a good-humour—possibly the Duchess had called. Letty hastily glanced into the hall glass, straightened her hat, and rubbed her swollen eyes.
When she presented herself, Mrs. Fenchurch turned half round in her chair, and stared as if she could not believe her senses.
“Good God!” she exclaimed at last—in moments of violent excitement she borrowed the forcible language of her hard-riding brothers—“Where have you been? and what has happened?”
“Happened?” repeated the girl in a dull voice. “Nothing.”
“Come, there’s no use in telling me a lie—your eyes look as if they were set in red flannel, and your face is in dirty streaks!”
“I—I—I’m afraid I’m getting a bad cold in my head, Aunt Dorothy.”
“How sickening! Friday—and this is Wednesday. Well, you must go to bed at once, and take a large dose of ammoniated quinine. As for your dinner, it shall be gruel.”
“But really, Aunt Dorothy——” protested the miserable victim.
“But really, Letty, you are a hideous object,” interrupted Mrs. Fenchurch in her most inflexible manner. “Your nose is swelled to the size of a turnip. I’ve just had a note from Mr. Blagdon,” touching an envelope in her lap. “He is back at Ridgefield, now the thaw has come, and invites himself to lunch here on Friday, so I’ve barely two days to patch you up and make you fit to be seen. Now, my dear child, go off at once and bundle into bed as quickly as you can; I’ll bring you the gruel with lots of sulphur in it, within half an hour.”