“We shall go a good brisk walk,” he said, grimly, “and we shall be home by four. Now, am I to wait all day?”
Dismal, faltering feet came down the passage outside, and the three little victims appeared in the doorway.
“Now then, march,” said the Colonel.
It was some little while after four when the hot and jaded expedition returned. The walk had been more severe than usual, and even the Colonel flung himself with an air of fatigue into a chair.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said; “I shall not go near the house. Not go near it. At least, I sha’n’t go to-day. Tea—isn’t tea ready? Let it be brought.”
Even the friends of the Colonel might have felt inclined to accuse him of a slight duplicity for his action on this occasion. He had returned by way of Bolton Street, like the burned moth to the candle, and sending the children on with instructions to go home after waiting for five minutes at the end of the street, he had rung the bell, which was opened by a surprised maid. The hall was full of miscellaneous furniture, and the maid had to go warily among pictures and stools to the drawing-room, bearing his card. Jeannie’s voice was what is known as “carrying,” and she did not reflect how near the front door was to the drawing-room, where an agonizing measurement of a carpet was going on. Her words were distinctly audible.
“Colonel who? Colonel Raymond. I never heard of him. Fancy calling when we are in this state! Tell him we are all out. Did you say fifteen foot six or fifteen foot eight, Arthur? It makes just the whole difference.”
Then somebody said “Hush!” and Jeannie’s voice said “Oh!”
A moment afterward the maid came out of the drawing-room, shutting the door carefully after her.
“Not at home, sir,” she said, without a blush or a tremor in her voice.