Uncle George had departed dutifully.
Almost at the same moment the maid Gertrude had put her head round the door, the rest of her remaining outside the room, after the fashion most deplored by Miss Raymond, and given breathless utterance:
“Oh, miss! Could you come out a minute, please? Shamrock’s got his head squeezed in between the railings at the back, and I can’t get him out, and he’s howling something awful!”
“That dog!”
Permitting herself only this forbearing exclamation, Aunt Beryl also had hastened away.
Mr. Monteagle Almond remained seated before the chess-table, sedulously tracing a little imaginary pattern on the board with one long yellow forefinger.
Lydia was seated under the gas, which she had turned up as high as it would go, absorbed in finishing a Sunday blouse for herself.
“I am sorry to hear of your projected departure, Miss Lydia,” suddenly said Mr. Monteagle Almond. “Quite a break-up of the home circle.”
“Oh, no!” protested Lydia, who would have been more deeply concerned at this fashion of viewing her going if she had not been accustomed to Mr. Almond’s sententious phraseology on every occasion. “Besides, I’m not going yet. It’s only a plan for next winter perhaps. I shan’t leave school until the end of this term.”
Mr. Almond shook his head.