"And, what is more, you did believe me!" Beulah flashed. "I know enough now to be sure that you'd have found quite another use for me if you hadn't! You saw I wasn't in the least the sort you were looking for, but it occurred to you that you could supply your dear old friend with a slave who wouldn't leave her the first time she was poisonously rude if you sent me to her - complete with my dossier!"
He still seemed to be genuinely amused. "Poor little savage! Do you hate me for it?"
"No more than I hate cockroaches!"
At this moment, Thrimby opened the door. Mr. Seaton-Carew stood back with an exaggerated gesture of civility to allow Beulah to precede him into the house. His eyes mocked her; he said, as he handed Thrimby his hat: "What do you do to cockroaches, my dear? Put your foot on them?"
"When I get the chance!"
"What a cruel little girl! I'm afraid you won't, you know!"
She turned, at the foot of the stairs, to look back at him. "Don't be too sure of that, Mr. Seaton-Carew! Add determined to cruel, and you'll be very nearly right!"
"Your overcoat, sir?" said Thrimby, in a voice that clearly expressed his opinion of this interchange.
Beulah postponed her entrance to the drawing-room until the last moment, and did, not join the party until after the separate arrivals of Lord Guisborough and Mr. Harte. She found her employer very stately in black velvet and diamonds, with a large black lace fan, mounted on ebony sticks, which she carried in one hand. This was in imitation of a certain much admired Duchess, and was a plagiarism which Mr. Harte had instantly recognised and appreciated. He caught Beulah's eye as she entered the room, and directed it to the gloves and the fan. Since Beulah had not been informed of the identities of the two extra guests Mr. Harte's presence came as a glad surprise to her. Her rather forbidding expression was lightened by an involuntary smile, and a faint flush. These indications of her pleasure were not lost on her employer, who observed them with a steely light in her eyes. But Mrs. Haddington never committed the solecism of being rude to her secretary in public, and she said, with her mechanical smile: "Ah, here you are, Miss Birtley! You know my secretary, don't you, Lance?"
The latest flower of the peerage was seated beside Cynthia on a deep sofa, engrossed in expounding the high principles infusing every Russian bosom, but he turned his head at these words, waved a vague hand, and said graciously: "Oh, hallo!"