Mrs. Blaine turned away with a fine assumption of indifference, and Marjorie ventured a sympathetic word in Lady Fanshawe’s ear.
“It’s very bothersome, isn’t it?” she murmured, “especially when one does so much entertaining. You always seem to have such bad luck with your servants. I believe I could send you a cook.”
The older woman flung a peculiar look at her, and whispered, “You dear, simple soul! I’ve a perfect treasure! But I don’t dare say so; every one of my friends would try to take her from me!”
Outside, the handsome departmental car drew smartly to a standstill, and the Hon. Peter Carmichael assisted his daughter to alight. She tripped up the carpeted stairs with no more concern than though she were going to a Golf Club Tea.
The trembling, green-white usher came forward to meet her. A group of bridesmaids stood near the door.
“Well, old thing,” cried Mona, “how’s the silly show, anyway?”
“Full house,” returned the usher. “S.R.O. as the theatres say. At five dollars a head, you’d have quite a tidy nest egg, y’know!”
“Rotten business—ushing,” cried Mona. “You look all in, young fella me lad.”
“I am. A company of duds, I call ’em. Balky as mules. Nobody wants to sit with anybody else.”
“Do you blame them?”