“When?”
“Oh—when it’s convenient—this afternoon, say.”
“All right,” I replied. “What are you doing this morning?”
“I’m going to take Mrs. Prescott out of herself—if I can. Come and see her.”
I disliked the job as much as Mary had dreaded it, but courtesy demanded it.
Mrs. Prescott was a tall woman with white hair—somewhere I should judge in the early “fifties.” She was completely mistress of her feelings and gave an immediate impression of efficiency and capability. I learned afterwards that she had founded the florist’s business in Kensington that had achieved such remarkable success and had been the foundation stone of the family fortunes, and was herself at the time of which I speak a Justice of the Peace. The blow she had received had been a very heavy one, but she was unmistakably facing it with courage.
“Good-morning, Mr. Cunningham,” she greeted me quietly.
“You know me then, Mrs. Prescott?” I asked, not without surprise.
“Gerald”—there was a little catch in her throat—“pointed you out to me at Lords’ a month ago.”
I was momentarily at a loss. I had expected a grief-stricken woman bordering on hysteria, and this quiet and courageous resignation stirred me greatly.