“Dear little girl!” sighed Margoliouth sentimentally, as he reluctantly released her from his clasp when the cab stopped.
Lydia ran up the steps, agreeably surprised at the instant opening of the door, and anxious to exchange the raw and foggy atmosphere outside for the comparative warmth and light of the hall.
The dining-room door also stood open, and as Lydia came in Miss Forster rushed out upon her.
“I’ve been waiting for you!” she cried effusively. “Come in here, my dear, won’t you?”
“Into the dining-room?” said Lydia, amazed. “Why, there’s no fire there! I’m going upstairs.”
“No, no,” said Miss Forster still more urgently, and laying a tightly-gloved white-kid hand on Lydia’s arm. “There’s someone up there.”
She pointed mysteriously to the ceiling.
Lydia looked up, bewildered, but only saw Miss Nettleship, the gas-light shining full on her pale, troubled face, hastening down the stairs. She passed Lydia and Miss Forster unperceiving, and went straight up to the Greek, who had just closed the street door behind him.
“Mr. Margoliouth!” she said, in her usual breathless fashion. “You see how it is—it’s quite all right, I’m sure ... but your wife has come. She’s in the drawing-room.”
Margoliouth uttered a stifled exclamation, and then went upstairs without another word.