"Is the—lady with Miss Cheffington now, James?"
"Yes, ma'am. Miss Cheffington took her into the dining-room. I thought that, as last time—I mean as Smithson wasn't in the way—I'd better let you know, ma'am."
"Did the lady ask for me?"
"N-no; I—well, I really hardly know, ma'am."
"You hardly know?"
"Well, ma'am, she talked a great deal, and so—so——It was uncommonly difficult to follow what she said. At first I thought she announced her name as being Oldchester. I did say 'not at home' twice, but it was no use; and then Miss Cheffington happening to pass through the hall——"
"That will do."
James retired with an injured air, and Mrs. Dormer-Smith was left to consider within herself whether duty required her to be present at the interview between May and this unknown Mrs. Simpson, or whether she might indulge herself by sitting still and reading Mrs. Griffin's last letter in comfort and quietude. After a brief deliberation, she resolved to go downstairs. There was no knowing who or what the woman might be. James had said something about Oldchester. No doubt she came from that place. Perhaps she was an emissary of Mr. Rivers! Pauline, as she rose and drew a shawl round her shoulders, before facing the chillier atmosphere of the staircase, breathed a pious hope that her brother Augustus might sooner or later compensate her for all the sacrifices she was making on behalf of May.
Before she reached the dining-room, she heard the sound of a fluent monologue. May was not speaking at all, so far as Mrs. Dormer-Smith could make out. When she entered the room, she found the girl sitting beside a stout, florid woman, dressed in trente-six couleurs—as Pauline phrased it to herself—who was holding forth with a profusion of "nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles."
Mrs. Dormer-Smith made this stranger a bow of such freezing politeness as ought to have petrified her on the spot; and, turning to May, inquired with raised eyebrows, "Who is your friend, May?"