Miss Von "Sworsenburg" had obliged with a cloudless face. It was Lady McIntyre who looked disturbed, even guilty. She took refuge in a work-bag, which she unhooked from the back of her chair. She jerked it open hurriedly on her knees and bent her head to rummage in the depths. Conversation between Napier and Nan languished. Both were listening to those voices in the next room.
The door opened abruptly and in bustled Sir William, ruffling up the little hair he had left and looking the very picture of discomfort.
"Perfect dolt, that fella!" he threw over his shoulder to Miss Greta.
She followed Sir William with an air of calmness, not to say detachment, that even she, past mistress in the art of conveying the finer shades of superiority, had never excelled. "I left my gloves, I think," she said.
Sir William had gone to the bell and rung twice. "That fella says she ought to go and register. Makes out he'll get into trouble if she doesn't go at once."
"Register, William? What nonsense! Why on earth should she?"
"Why? Oh, the permit was informal, and only for a given time. Silly idiots!"
"Well, well," his wife soothed him, "tell the creatures, if they're in such a ridiculous hurry—she'll motor over to-morrow."
"To-morrow won't do. He's had orders. It's got to be to-night." Sir William spoke in his most testy tone.
Nan had sprung up and gone to her friend. Napier, too, had come forward. He picked up the missing gloves.