Lydia reflected grimly that there were more ways than one of being a heroine.
She looked at herself in the glass. Anger and excitement had given her a colour, and she did not feel at all inclined to cry. She was, in fact, perfectly aware that she was really not in the least unhappy. But the people downstairs would think that she was proudly concealing a broken heart.
Lydia dressed her thick mass of hair very carefully, thrust the high, carved comb into one side of the great black twist at just the right angle, and put on a blouse of soft, dark-red silk that suited her particularly well.
There was a knock at her door.
Lydia went to open it, and saw Miss Nettleship on the threshold.
“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry, and if you want a tray upstairs for this once, it’ll be quite all right, and I’ll give the girl the order myself. You aren’t thinking of coming down to-night, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” said Lydia steadily. “It’s very kind of you, but I’d rather come down just as usual.”
“It’s as you like, of course,” said the manageress in unhappy accents. “Miss Forster came to me about you—you know what she is. But I’m so vexed you should have heard all in a minute like, only you understand how it was, dear, don’t you? And his wife has paid up the bills, all in cash, and wants to stay over Sunday.”
“There’s the bell,” said Lydia.
“Then I must go, dear—you know how it is. That old Miss Lillicrap is such a terror with the vegetables. I do feel so vexed about it all—and your auntie will be upset, won’t she? Are you ready, dear?”