“You’ve got your London friends, ma’am—”
Feather literally beat her hands together.
“My friends! Can I go to people’s houses and knock at their front door and tell them I haven’t any servants or anything to eat! Can I do that? Can I?” And she said it as if she were going crazy.
The woman had said what she had come to say as spokeswoman for the rest. It had not been pleasant but she knew she had been quite within her rights and dealt with plain facts. But she did not enjoy the prospect of seeing her little fool of a mistress raving in hysterics.
“You mustn’t let yourself go, ma’am,” she said. “You’d better lie down a bit and try to get quiet.” She hesitated a moment looking at the pretty ruin who had risen from her seat and stood trembling.
“It’s not my place of course to—make suggestions,” she said quietly. “But—had you ever thought of sending for Lord Coombe, ma’am?”
Feather actually found the torn film of her mind caught for a second by something which wore a form of reality. Cook saw that her tremor appeared to verge on steadying itself.
“Coombe,” she faintly breathed as if to herself and not to Cook.
“Coombe.”
“His lordship was very friendly with Mr. Lawless and he seemed fond of—coming to the house,” was presented as a sort of added argument. “If you’ll lie down I’ll bring you a cup of tea, ma’am—though it can’t be beef.”