The sense of something uncomprehended, coming to Lesley uncomfortably, as it always comes, made her forbear to squash the maker of the bow, and say hastily in half-unconscious effort after the purely commonplace--
'Then I hope there won't be a chance; but one can never tell, can one?'
She blushed at her own inane words when she heard them, but Grace Arbuthnot as she moved on, gave a little hard laugh. 'Never, my dear! So long as there are men and women in the world, it will be as Stephen Hargraves said, "all a muddle."'
She broke off abruptly to look round; for, through the closed doors of the secretary's room came the imperative ring of an electric bell, making more than one keen face follow her example. But at the open door where the private secretary was holding up the portière on one side, while Nevill Lloyd as A.D.C. held up the other, the former shrugged his shoulders.
'Bother that bell!' he said to little Mrs. Carruthers who was passing. 'There's my evening gone! They might spare us Sunday--especially when you are dining here. I've a great mind to keep them ringing till you've gone.'
'Don't,' she laughed. 'Supposing it were a mutiny!' She made the suggestion out of pure wickedness, because her rival, who owned to never sleeping a wink if the bazaar near her house was noisy and let off fireworks, was within hearing.
'Surely you don't think'--began the timorous lady.
'Certainly not,' consoled the secretary. 'And if it was, Mrs. Carruthers, that's no reason for breaking the Sabbath.'
'They don't,' retorted the gay little lady. 'Sunday is over with them ages ago. They are six hours before----'
'Behind, you mean! The West is absolutely, hopelessly behind.'