The door of the chaise was opened, the steps let down, and in another minute Miss Taverner was standing inside Grillon’s hotel.
It was soon seen that Mr. Fitzjohn had not advised Peregrine ill. Grillon’s hotel offered its guests everything that could be imagined in the way of comfort. The bedchambers, the saloons, the furnishings, all were in the best of taste. Miss Taverner, who had been inclined to doubt the wisdom of following a strange young gentleman’s advice, was satisfied. There could be no need to inspect the sheets at Grillon’s.
The first thing to be done was to see her trunks unpacked, and her clothing tidily bestowed; the next to pull the bell-rope for the chambermaid, and bespeak some hot water.
On her way through one of the saloons to the staircase she had seen some of the other visitors to the hotel. There was a gentleman in tight pantaloons, reading a newspaper; two ladies in flimsy muslin dresses, talking by the window, and a stately dowager in a turban, who stared at Miss Taverner in a haughty manner that made her. feel that her bonnet was dowdy, and her dress crushed from sitting in the post-chaise for so long.
She put on her best gown for dinner, but she was afraid, looking doubtfully at her reflection in the long mirror, that it was not fashionable enough for so modish a hotel. However, her pearls at least were incomparable. She clasped the string round her neck, pulled on a pair of silk mittens over her hands, and sat down to wait for Peregrine.
They dined at six, which seemed a very late hour to Judith, but which Peregrine, who had been in conversation with some of the other guests while she was unpacking and had contrived to glean a quantity of odd information, assured her was not late at all, but on the contrary, unfashionably early.
Peregrine was agog with excitement, his blue eyes sparkling, and all his doldrums vanished. He wanted to be up and doing, and tried to coax Judith into going with him to the play after dinner. She refused it, but urged him to go without her, not to be thinking himself tied to her apron strings. For herself, she was very tired, and would go to bed at the earliest opportunity.
He went, and she did not see him again until next morning, when they met at the breakfast-table. He had been to Covent Garden, to see Kemble; he had kept the playbill for her; he was devilish sorry she had not been there, for she would have liked it of all things. Such a great theatre, with he knew not how many boxes, all hung with curtains, and supported on pillars, and the roomiest pit! He dared not say how many candles there were: everything was a blaze of light; and as for the company, why, he had never seen so many dressed-up people in his life; no, nor half so many quizzes neither!
She listened to it all, and asked him a dozen questions. He could not tell her very much about the play; he had been too much taken up with watching all the fashionables. He thought it had been Othello, or some such thing. He was nearly sure it was Othello, now he came to think of it; famous stuff, but he had enjoyed the farce more. And now what were they to do? For his part he thought they had best call on Lord Worth, and get it done with.
She agreed to it, and went up to her room after breakfast to put on her hat and her gloves. She hoped Lord Worth would not be angry with them for having come to London against his advice, but now that she was so near to seeing him in person she owned to a slight feeling of nervousness. But Peregrine was right: nothing could be done until they had presented themselves to their guardian.