The younger Miss Semaphore found her sister rolling her eyes in the most alarming fashion.
“What is the matter?” she asked, but Augusta of course was unable to tell. She fixed an angry glance, however, on the door of her sister’s room and nodded towards it. Something in that direction was evidently the cause of her displeasure. As a matter of fact she had had a fright. While Prudence was downstairs, one of the housemaids, not knowing that anyone was there, made an attempt to get in, and as the lock on that particular door was shaky, Miss Semaphore expected every moment to see the girl enter the room. She could not explain this, so had to content herself with looking cross.
Prudence pulled the curtains, moved a number of things, saying each time, “Is it this?” “Is it that?” but failing naturally, to get a reply, she gave up the attempt and began to feed her sister. The operation was not successful.
Prudence proved but an awkward nurse. Augusta being, in body at least, practically but eight days old, choked, cried, and had to be patted on the back when she got too large a spoonful of milk. Half the contents of the cup went the wrong way. Augusta kicked, and spilt a portion on the carpet, but at last the meal was got through, though with little satisfaction to either sister.
“Now,” said Prudence, as she finished her task, “I shall have to leave you alone for some time.”
Augusta evidently disliked the idea of being left alone, for she immediately screwed up her face into contortions that announced an outburst of weeping.
“Oh, stop! do stop!” cried her sister exasperated, “they are sure to hear you if you cry. How inconsiderate you are! For goodness sake do be quiet and think a little of someone beside yourself. What else am I to do? It is all very well for you to object, but something must be done and done quickly, and as you cannot help me, I must decide for myself. I shall go at once to Mrs. Geldheraus and implore of her to give me something to cure you. She is sure to know what should be done, and in the meantime I beg of you keep quiet, or Mary will hear you in the corridor. I shall tell her you are ill and on no account to be disturbed.”
Augusta apparently listened to reason, for gradually her features relaxed and she ceased whimpering. Prudence put on her bonnet, veil, and mantle, tucked in the elderly infant, locked the doors carefully, warned Mary, and started off to find the explorer’s widow.
The poor lady’s mind was a chaos of conflicting thought and emotions as she wound her way through the Bloomsbury squares to Handel Street. No. 194 was gaunt and dingy. Over the door hung a framed card, bearing the legend, “Apartments,” and on the sill of the dining-room window sat a black cat, lazily washing herself in the sun. In answer to repeated ringing, a dirty servant, with her cap all to one side, opened the door.
“Mrs. Geldheraus,” she said, “she ain’t here. Left this morning first thing, she did. Had a tellygram last night to hurry up.”