“Excuse me for a moment,” said Feo, and marched out of the room with a perfectly expressionless face.
Shutting the door behind her, she caught the eye of a man servant who was on duty in the hall. He came smartly forward.
“Go up to Mr. Fallaray and say that I shall be greatly obliged if he will come to my den at once on an important matter.” And then, having taken two or three excited turns up and down the hall, she controlled her face and went back into the room.
“Saint Anthony, Young Lochinvar, the lady’s maid,” she said to herself, “and the ex-leader of the erotics. A heterogeneous company, if ever there was one.”
Once more, standing with her back to the fireplace, her elbows on the low mantel board, Feo looked down at Lola, whose eyes were very large and like those of a child who had cried herself out of tears.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
“At Whitecross, with Lady Cheyne,” replied Lola.
“Oh!—The little fat woman who has the house near the gate in the wall? I see. And you came back this afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Lola.
“With my husband?”