Joey read him column on column of frantic outcry, at all of which he smiled gently.
‘This is our joke,’ he said, at last, to Lady Wyse.
‘It’s not our best.’
Then there came a tap at the door, and a gentle voice saying:
‘May I come in?’
Lady Lillico had been awoken by a dream with the sound of a shot in it. Nine o’clock! Why, where was Harper? She rang, and rang in vain. Then she looked out of window, and smiled and nodded at the crowd. How sweet of them to be so anxious about the poor dear Prince! And still no Harper. Never mind! One must expect to rough it in a house of sickness. She knotted her hair and slipped on her dressing-gown; a first visit in déshabillé lends a motherly grace to a nurse’s part.
She tripped lightly down the silent stairs to Dwala’s room.
‘May I come in?’
She tip-toed up to the bed with a ceremonious face. Mr. Cato frowned; Lady Wyse looked at her with cold curiosity.
‘Have you heard the news?’ said Joey, rustling a newspaper.