By her side stood—for they were moving toward the door, on their way to an exit—an elderly woman, with an expressionless face, simply and plainly dressed. She was generally spoken of as the watch dog; but she scarcely deserved that name, for Lady Bell was quite capable of watching over herself; and Mrs. Fellowes, the widow of the Indian colonel, was too mild to represent any sort of dog whatever.
Surrounded by a crowd of devoted courtiers, the great heiress and her companion moved toward the door where the hostess stood receiving the farewells and thanks of her guests; and when one thinks of the many hundred times Lady Merivale had stood by that door, and undergone that terrible ordeal, one is filled with amazement and awe at her courage and physical strength.
For forty years she had been standing at doors, receiving and meeting guests; yet she stood tonight as smiling and courageous as ever.
At last Lady Bell reached her hostess, and Lady Merivale, tired and done up as she was, gave her special recognition.
“Must you go, Lady Bell? Well, good-night. And thank you for making my poor little dance a success. Thank you very much.”
Lady Bell said nothing, but she smiled “in her old colonial” way, as they called it, and threaded through the lane of human beings on the stairs.
“Lady Earlsley’s carriage!” shouted the footman in the gorgeous Merivale livery, and a little brougham drove up.
Lady Bell hated show and magnificence.
Her stables and coach-houses were crowded with horses and carriages, her wardrobes filled to repletion with Worth’s costumes and Elise’s “confections,” as bonnets are called now-a-days, but a plain little brougham was her favorite vehicle, and the simplest of costumes pleased her best.
All the way down the stairs she had to nod and smile and exchange farewells, and at the bottom, in the hall, on the stone steps themselves, she was surrounded by men eager to secure the privilege of putting her into her little brougham.