“And now I will go down. By the way, will you please tell Simcox—that’s the butler—that the gentlemen will want Lafitte, at least, Mr. Newcombe will. I don’t know what Mr. Stephen Davenant drinks. What’s the matter?” she broke off to inquire, for she heard Laura stumble and fall against the wardrobe.
There was a moment’s pause; then, calmly enough, Laura said:
“My foot caught in your ladyship’s dress, I think.”
“Have you hurt yourself?” asked Lady Bell, kindly. “You have gone quite pale! Here, take some of this sal-volatile.”
But Laura declined, respectfully. It was a mere nothing, and she would be more careful of alarming her ladyship for the future.
Lady Bell looked at her curiously. The quiet, self-contained manner, so free from nervousness or embarrassment, interested her.
She stopped her as Laura was leaving the room.
“We haven’t fixed upon a name for you yet,” she said.
“No, my lady; any name will do.”
“It is a pity to change yours—it is a pretty one.”