After she had taken off her hat and scrutinized herself carefully in the looking-glass, Lydia wrote to Aunt Beryl a postcard, to tell her of her safe arrival and of Miss Nettleship’s kindness.
Then she went downstairs.
She could not make up her mind to open the door of the smoking-room, from behind which came the sound of feminine voices, but hung about in the narrow hall, under pretext of seeking a box in which to deposit her postcard.
Suddenly the sound of a deferential voice in her ear made her turn round.
“Did you want to post a letter?”
Lydia faced a slim, dark man, with glistening, black eyes and a clean-shaven, swarthy face. She guessed, from some indefinable intonation that hardly amounted to an accent, in his quiet, silky tones, that this was the Greek gentleman alluded to by the manageress.
“Is there a letter-box?” she asked.
“I hardly advise you to make use of it, if your card is urgent. I have seen it remain uncleared for days. The servant is very careless. But there is a pillar box just outside. Allow me!”
Lydia hesitated, but the Greek put out a slim finger and thumb, and neatly twitched the card out of her hand.
“A pleasure,” said he, opening the front door.