As things are, however, she is able to smile pleasantly at Mrs. Carson, and tell her in her soft voice that Lady Rodney is at home.
"How fortunate!" says that fat woman, with her broad expansive grin that leaves her all mouth, with no eyes or nose to speak of. "We hardly dared hope for such good luck this charming day."
She doesn't put any g into her "charming," which, however, is neither here or there, and is perhaps a shabby thing to take notice of at all.
Then she and her two daughters quit the "coach," as Carson pere insist on calling the landau, and flutter through the halls, and across the corridors, after Mona, until they reach the room that contains Lady Rodney.
Mona throws open the door, and the visitors sail in, all open-eyed and smiling, with their very best company manners hung out for the day.
But almost on the threshold they come to a full stop to gaze irresolutely at one another, and then over their shoulders at Mona. She, marking their surprise, comes hastily to the front, and so makes herself acquainted with the cause of their delay.
Overcome by the heat of the fire, her luncheon, and the blessed certainty that for this one day at least no one is to be admitted to her presence, Lady Rodney has given herself up a willing victim to the child Somnus. Her book—that amiable assistant of all those that court siestas—has fallen to the ground. Her cap is somewhat awry. Her mouth is partly open, and a snore—gentle, indeed, but distinct and unmistakable—comes from her patrician throat.
It is a moment never to be forgotten!
Mona, horror-stricken, goes quickly over to her, and touches her lightly on the shoulder.
"Mrs. Carson has come to see you," she says, in an agony of fear, giving her a little shake.