Marjorie did not immediately remember the events and her sensations of the night before. When she did so, they all came back in a sudden flash of memory.
"Antoinette," she said quickly, "find Mrs. Summers"—Lady Kirwan's maid—"and ask if I can come to mamma's room at once."
In a minute the maid returned.
"M'lady is nearly dressed, mademoiselle," she said. "Elle sera bien contente de voir mademoiselle toute de suite."
Slipping on a dressing-gown and fur slippers, Marjorie went to her mother's room immediately. She was bursting with eagerness and anxiety to tell her the news. She was not in the least ill-natured or small-minded. She had not the least wish to "tell tales." But she was genuinely and seriously alarmed about her beloved cousin's future.
She found Lady Kirwan already dressed and sitting in her boudoir. The elder lady wore a face of utter consternation, and her daughter saw at once that there was little she could tell her.
Mrs. Summers, an elderly, confidential maid, was in the room, and there was a pile of morning papers upon the writing-table.
Nothing that went on in Berkeley Square ever escaped the discreet Summers. She was perfectly aware of Mary's late arrival, and that she had come without any luggage. When Mary had been put to bed, she had found out from Antoinette all that the French girl could tell her.
And the morning journals, which Mrs. Summers generally looked over before taking them to her mistress, supplied the rest.
All London was at this moment ringing with the news of what had happened at the Frivolity Theatre the night before. There had been several daily journalists among the audience, and plenty of other people either directly connected with, or, at any rate, in touch with, the Press.