"Hsh! My lord," he whispered with his finger on his lip; and turning slightly, he cast an apprehensive glance over his shoulder towards the top of the stairs.
With an effort Cyril shook off his preoccupation. Following the direction of his servant's eyes, he saw nothing more alarming than a few dusty plants which were supposed to adorn the small landing where the stairs turned. Before he had time to form a conjecture as to the cause of Peter's agitation, the latter continued breathlessly: "Her Ladyship 'ave arrived, my lord!"
Having made this announcement, he stepped back as if to watch what effect this information would have on his master. There was no doubt that Peter's alarm was very genuine, yet one felt that in spite of it he was enjoying the dramatic possibilities of the situation.
Cyril, however, only blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Her Ladyship? What Ladyship?" he asked.
"Lady Wilmersley, my lord, and she brought her baggage. I haven't known what to do, that I haven't. I knew she ought not to stay here, but I couldn't turn 'er out, could I?"
Cyril's mind was so full of Anita that he never doubted that it was she to whom Peter was referring, so without waiting to ask further questions, he rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and threw open the door of his sitting-room.
On a low chair in front of the fire his wife sat reading quietly.
Cyril staggered back as if he had been struck. She, however, only turned her head languidly and closing her book, surveyed him with a mocking smile.
For a moment Cyril saw red. His disappointment added fuel to his indignation.