“Certainly not. But read the message over to me, that I may be sure you understand it.”
Clémentine began in a singsong voice:
“You are wanted here on urgent business. Come directly you receive my telegram.”
“That will do. Mind your spelling,” was her ladyship’s comment. “Now you can go.”
Lord Teignmouth was breakfasting at his club in luxurious bachelor ease when his wife’s message reached him, and he uttered an exclamation of annoyance and surprise.
“How confoundedly unfortunate! And I dare say it is only some fad of Pauline’s, after all. She likes to have men running after her. I think I’ll telegraph back that I am particularly engaged, and can’t leave town.”
Then he suddenly recollected that with all Lady Teignmouth’s caprices, she had never sent for him in this way before, and he at once decided to go. He telegraphed back to this effect, then finished his breakfast as quickly as he could, and in less than an hour was on his way to Bridgton.
Pauline had calculated about the time he would reach the station, and had gone there to meet him, like a dutiful and affectionate wife.
“Dear Reggie, how very kind of you!” she exclaimed, her face in a glitter of smiles. “I never expected you at all.”
“Then you did not come to meet me, Pauline?”