Lexy made a creditable effort to master her anger and distress.
“It’s important—to you,” she said. “I have to see some one about Caroline—some one who can tell you something.”
This time Mrs. Enderby made no answer at all. There she sat, stout, majestic, absolutely impervious, looking out of the window as if Lexy did not exist. What was to be done? She couldn’t communicate with the chauffeur except by leaning across Mrs. Enderby, and a struggle with that lady was out of the question.
“But I’m not going on!” she thought.
She waited until the car slowed down at a crossing. Then she made a sudden dart for the door. With equal suddenness Mrs. Enderby seized her arm.
“Sit down!” she said, in a singularly unpleasant whisper. “There shall be no scene. Sit down, I tell you!”
“I won’t!” replied Lexy, but just then the car started forward, and she fell back on the seat.
“You will come with me,” said Mrs. Enderby.
That overbearing tone, that grasp on her arm, were very nearly too much for Lexy. She had always been quick-tempered. All the Morans were, and were perversely proud of it, too; but Lexy had learned many lessons in a hard school. She had learned to control her temper, and she did so now. She was silent for a time.
“All right!” she agreed, at last. “I’ll come. I don’t see what else I can do—now; but after this I’ll have to use my own judgment, Mrs. Enderby.”