Lady Aviolet rang the bell, ordered the lighting of the fire, and asked that tea should be brought.
Lucian noticed the heavy lines beneath her eyes, the sodden pallor of her face, and the weary, aged look that told of sleepless nights and corroding grief. It was astonishing to him to feel the tense apprehension, the seething emotions of the others, steadied by the mere weight of her composure.
Even Sir Thomas’s bluster died away into a muttered inquiry as to the delay in arrival.
“My luggage has been lost—a gross piece of carelessness. It was properly labelled, and I saw it put in myself. Either it was deliberately taken out again—stolen, in fact—or someone was allowed to walk away with it on arrival. In any case, I shall hold the railway company responsible, as I told them.”
“Scandalous mismanagement,” said Sir Thomas, making use of a phrase which Lucian had very often heard him apply to the minor inconveniences of life.
“Tea,” said Lady Aviolet.
She sat at the round table in the middle of the small room and poured out the tea, and they all, almost automatically, drew chairs to the table and sat down also.
It was Lady Aviolet who held emotion at bay. She made inquiries regarding milk and sugar, and complained gently of the blackness of hotel tea, and desired Ford to ring the bell for more hot water.
“They never bring a proper supply in these places—never.”
She asked about the journey, carefully addressing herself to the doctor.