“Give them to the bedder while they’re hot.” This was done. She accepted them dispassionately, with the air of one who lives without nourishment. Tilliard continued to describe his sister’s coffee machine.
“What’s that?” They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs.
“It sounds like a lady,” said Tilliard fearfully. He slipped the piece of pie back. It fell into position like a brick.
“Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?” The door opened and in came Mrs. Lewin. “Oh horrors! I’ve made a mistake.”
“That’s all right,” said Ansell awkwardly.
“I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?”
“We expect Mr. Elliot every-moment,” said Tilliard.
“Don’t tell me I’m right,” cried Mrs. Lewin, “and that you’re the terrifying Mr. Ansell.” And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliard warmly by the hand.
“I’m Ansell,” said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim.
“How stupid of me not to know it,” she gasped, and would have gone on to I know not what, but the door opened again. It was Rickie.