Esmeralda ran down-stairs, and Lady Wyndover, as she listened to her, sunk into a chair—collapsed perhaps would be the better word—for a few minutes, until she recovered from the series of shocks which Esmeralda had, all unconsciously, administered.
Esmeralda slipped on her hat and jacket, and then went into the boudoir and waited, for, what seemed to her, hours. At last Lady Wyndover appeared, in the latest of Redfern’s outdoor costumes, and Esmeralda, as she looked at her, began to understand why the dresses she had bought in Melbourne were unsatisfactory.
They went down-stairs, where a perfectly appointed brougham awaited them. A footman stood at the bottom of the stairs, a porter held the door open, another footman stood by the open door of the brougham, and touched his hat as the ladies appeared.
“I thought you said it wasn’t far?” said Esmeralda, as they went off.
“Nor is it,” said Lady Wyndover. “It is only in the next street—Mount Street.”
“Oh!” said Esmeralda, with puzzled surprise; “then why did we want this carriage and these two men?”
“I don’t know,” said Lady Wyndover, helplessly. “Would you rather have walked? I never walk anywhere, if I can help it.”
“Are you lame? Is there anything the matter with you?” asked Esmeralda.
“No,” said Lady Wyndover, faintly.
The brougham pulled up at what looked like a private house, and they entered, and were shown into a room on the ground floor. It would have looked like an ordinary sitting-room, but for two or three dresses and costumes which lay about on the chairs and sofas.