“Well, Lady Ann,” said Aunt Harriet, “what d’you think of our floor?” She laid her hand familiarly upon the girl’s arm. “Not so bad for ole Suet?”
“I—I think it’s very good,” said Ann, observing with horror that the space, which had momentarily disappeared, was beginning to surround her again.
Aunt Harriet saw it, too, and raised her voice.
“You know, Lady Ann, I’m so glad to ’ave you at last. I’ve got so much I want you to ’elp me with. You know, livin’ all the year round in the country, one’s ideas seem to get into a groove. In course, Taown’s the ’ub. There one’s in touch with things. ’Otels and emporiums is up to date. People ’as got to move. One’s only to take a walk down the street or pop into a laounge. . . . But ’ere—nothin’. An’ after a bit, Lady Ann, stegnation sets in. I tell you,” she added, with a mischievous laugh, “I’m not goin’ to give you no rest. You’ll be wore out before I’m through.”
“I’m—I’m sure I shan’t,” faltered Ann, trying to smile and wildly conscious of an unnatural hush. “Indeed, I——”
Mercifully, the band recommenced its labours.
“Shell we take another turn?” said Mr. Alcock.
Ann lifted up her head.
“To tell you the truth,” she said, “I’m a little tired.” She looked round anxiously. “I wonder where Bob is.”
“Gone to ’ave a drink,” said Ada.