“Lor', no, Miss, there can't be any such goings on as that here. I think they are waiting for you in the breakfast room,” said the girl, starting down the broad steps.
“I'd sooner die than venture among those ruffians!”
“But the ladies are expecting you.”
“Ladies! Here?” gasped Dorothy.
“Yes, Miss; why not?”
Dorothy's head whirled again. In a dazed sort of way she glanced down at her morning gown, her mind slowly going back to the glittering costume she had worn the night before. Was it all a dream? Scarcely knowing what she did, she followed the girl down the steps, utterly without purpose, drawn as by some strange subtle force to the terminal point in the mystery.
Through the dimly-lighted hall she passed with heart throbbing wildly, expecting she knew not what. Her emotions as she approached the door she could have never told, so tumultuously were they surging one upon the other. The maid grasped the huge knob and swung wide the door, from whose threshold she was to look upon a picture that would linger in her mind to the end of time.
A great sunlit room; a long table and high-backed Flemish chairs; a bewildering group of men and women; a chorus of friendly voices; and then familiar faces began to stand out plainly before her eyes.
Lady Saxondale was advancing toward the door with outstretched hands and smiling face. Over her shoulder the dumbfounded girl saw Lady Jane Oldham, Saxondale, happy faced Dickey Savage and—Philip Quentin!