"Oh, thank you," said Miss Greta, with her smile. But it was the look on Nan's face that struck Napier—a look that haunted him afterwards. If it hadn't been absurd, he would have thought she was thanking him with all her soul; was giving him something. Something of unbelievable sweetness, "just because I stooped to pick up that woman's gloves!"
It was all in a flash. The next moment Nan stood buttoning up the coat she had so lately unbuttoned, and saying, "If you really must, I'm coming too!"—her eyes angry, her face ashamed. Miss von Schwarzenberg made no answer. Lady McIntyre was jerking out a succession of nervous questions which nobody took the trouble to notice.
"What we're coming to, I don't know." Sir William fumed and strutted up and down.
"Yes, Sir William." The servant stood there.
"Where's the tea?" Lady McIntyre in a sinking ship would have cried, "Where's the lifeboat?" with much the same accent and look of desperation.
"It's coming, m'lady. It's on the way up."
"Didn't I tell you five minutes ago"—the footman was catching it on the other side now—"you were to telephone for the car?"
"Yes, Sir William. It's coming round now, Sir William."
"Come, then," Miss Greta said, as though Nan were the person desired by the police. "I'm afraid I must carry you off."
"Oh, my dear!" Lady McIntyre rose with precipitation. Her work-bag rolled to the ground, but she didn't notice. Her blue eyes were on Greta's face a second, and then turned beseechingly on her husband.