Miss Raby said quietly: "I have made a mistake. Would you kindly give notice that I shall not want my room, and say that the luggage is to be taken, immediately, to the Biscione."
"Certainly! certainly!" said the waiter, who was well trained. He added with a vicious snort, "You will have to pay."
"Undoubtedly," said Miss Raby.
The elaborate machinery which had so recently sucked her in began to disgorge her. The trunks were carried down, the vehicle in which she had arrived was recalled. Elizabeth, white with indignation, appeared in the hall. She paid for beds in which they had not slept, and for food which they had never eaten. Amidst the whirl of gold-laced officials, who hoped even in that space of time to have established a claim to be tipped, she moved towards the door. The guests in the lounge observed her with amusement, concluding that she had found the hotel too dear.
"What is it? Whatever is it? Are you not comfortable?" Colonel Leyland in his evening dress ran after her.
"Not that; I've made a mistake. This hotel belongs to the son; I must go to the Biscione. He's quarrelled with the old people: I think the father's dead."
"But really—if you are comfortable here——"
"I must find out tonight whether it is true. And I must also"—her voice quivered—"find out whether it is my fault."
"How in the name of goodness——"
"I shall bear it if it is," she continued gently. "I am too old to be a tragedy queen as well as an evil genius."