“And if I am not much mistaken, that is the villain of The Sepoy’s Revenge,” said Lance. “Poor little Butterfly, it is a bad omen for her future fate.”
As they reached the doors of the great hotel, they found the pair in altercation with the porter before the iron gate that gave admittance to the gardens. “Mother Butterfly” was pleading that she was the mother of Miss Schnetterling, who was singing, and the porter replying that his orders were strict.
“No, not on any consideration,” he repeated, as the man was evidently showing him the glance of silver, and a policeman, who was marching about, showed signs of meaning to interfere.
At the same moment Gerald’s quick steps came up from the inside.
“That’s right, Lance; every one is crying out for you. Vicar, Cherie is keeping a capital place for you.”
The gate opened to admit them, and therewith Mrs. Schnetterling, trying to push in, made a vehement appeal—
“Mr. Underwood, sir, surely the prima donna’s own mother should not be excluded.”
“Her mother!” said Gerald. “Well, perhaps so, but hardly this—person,” as his native fastidiousness rose at the sight.
“No, sir,” said the porter. “Captain Henderson and Mr. Simmonds, they have specially cautioned me who I lets in.”
The man grumbled something about swells and insolence, and Lance, with his usual instinct of courtesy, lingered to say—