Chapter Sixteen.
Rather Equivocal.
Lady Lisle gave an angry, shuddering look of disgust as she glanced round the sanctuary of the high priest of sport, noting the pictures and hunting trophies, and then holding her highly-scented handkerchief to her delicate nostrils, which were sharply assailed by spirituous exhalations and the fumes of the noxious weed.
“Oh,” she mused, “that it should come to this—a publican’s daughter, a low-bred wench. Oh, Hilton, Hilton! But—ah! I am determined. I will see it to the end.”
She was kept waiting quite five minutes, which she passed standing like a statue in the middle of the hall, till there was a husky cough, and Simpkins came hurrying out, trying with fat, clumsy fingers to thrust a little white, folded paper, very suggestive of “the powder at night” into his waistcoat pocket, where it refused at first to go.
“Beg pardon, my lady,” he said, after a quick glance up at the gallery. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Very busy to-day.”
“Mr Simpkins?” said the lady, haughtily.
“That’s me, my lady; but if you want accommodation I’m afraid we’re full.”