It was not difficult to conjecture that Miss Blandflower was trampling recklessly over the feet on either side of her in her endeavours to rescue the rabbit skin.
As she left the hall with Mrs. Tregaskis, Rosamund heard the last glee begin, and exclamations issuing in the penetrating husky falsetto which was peculiar to Miss Blandflower when whispering:
“Don’t wait for me—but I’m afraid you can’t get out—or could you squeeze past? This wretched fur of mine. Simply beyond the beyonds, isn’t it? Wait a minute—the deed is done—no, it isn’t—false alarm. Oh, how dreadful of me this is ... you’ll never forgive me, I’m afraid. Now then, a long pull and a strong pull....”
The door swung to behind Rosamund.
“Where are the others?” asked her guardian.
Cousin Bertie always made her way through any crowd without any difficulty at all, partly because her bulk was considerable, and partly from a certain pleasant authoritative way she had of saying, “Thank you—if you’ll just let me get past, please—thank you so much.” Rosamund had noticed long ago that very few people were ever proof against that firm civility.
“Aren’t they coming?” said Mrs. Tregaskis, when they were in the outer hall.
“Miss Blandflower’s fur got caught into her chair or something, and the others couldn’t get past.”
“Wretched Minnie! Now they’ll have to wait until the end of that chorus—Nina will never come out in the middle of it. How cross she’ll be. Well, Rosamund, you and I may as well sit down and wait for them here.”
Mrs. Tregaskis established herself on the red plush sofa underneath an enlarged photograph of Mme. Clara Butt, and made room for Rosamund beside her.