Rosamund looked at him dumbly, searching less for words in which to clothe her meaning than for the power to speak at all.
“H’m!” Frederick looked at her significantly. “You can make your own explanations to your Cousin Bertha, then.”
Rosamund instantly felt convinced that he knew perfectly well what those explanations were to be.
Earlier than Rosamund had expected, she heard the hoot of Mrs. Severing’s motor in the drive, and then sounds indicating that Mrs. Tregaskis had descended and entered the house.
Without the slightest idea of what she was about to do or say, Rosamund went into the hall.
The mist of the day before had cleared altogether, and sunlight streamed into the hall and over the ample form of Mrs. Tregaskis, rapidly unwinding her motor-veil before the glass, her back to the door against which Rosamund leant heavily, from sheer physical inability to advance further.
Miss Blandflower, a pallid and grotesque figure with one side of her face swollen beneath the small grey shawl that draped her head and shoulders, was hurrying feebly down the stairs.
“My dear old Minnie! What have you been doing to yourself? An abscess?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. A bad tooth, and I foolishly went out in the wet yesterday and caught cold. There’s no luck about the house—you know the old song, dear Mrs. Tregaskis. It’s a sight for sore eyes to see you back, as they say.”
“Where are my girls?”