The clock pointed to half-past six, Bulders was due—over-due, like the Spanish galleon that was destined never to come into port. She had said in her note, "Come early, I wish to talk over the last report of the —— Society, and my brother has little sympathy with such subjects."
Suddenly her trained ear distinguished the sound of her brother's latchkey in the door below. Some women are strangely like dogs in so far as regards the senses of hearing and smell.
Patience Hancock, as she sat by the drawing-room fireplace, could tell that her brother had not entered the house alone. She made out his voice, and then the voice of Bridgewater. She supposed that James had brought his clerk home to dinner to talk business matters over, as he sometimes did; and she was relapsing from the attitude of strained attention when a sound struck her, hit her, and caused her to drop her crochet-work and rise to her feet.
She heard the laughter of a girl.
Almost instantly upon the laughter the door opened, and it seemed to Miss Hancock that a dozen people entered the room.
"This is my sister Patience—Patience, Miss Lambert. We've all come back to dinner. Sit down, Bridgewater. By the way, Patience, there's a letter for you; I took it from the postman at the hall door." He handed the letter; it was from Mr Bulders, excusing himself for not coming to dine, and alleging for reason a sore throat.
Patience extended a frigid hand to Miss Lambert, who just touched it; all the girl's light-heartedness and vivacity had vanished for the moment, Patience Hancock acted upon her like a draught of cold air.
"I think you have heard me mention Miss Lambert's name, Patience. We have been to the Zoo, the whole three of us. Immensely amusing place the Zoo—makes one feel quite a boy again. Hey, Bridgewater!"
"I hope you enjoyed it," said Miss Hancock in a perfunctory tone, glancing at Fanny, who was seated in a huge rocking-chair, the only really comfortable chair in the room, and then at Bridgewater, who had taken his seat on the ottoman.
"Pretty well, thanks," said Fanny, speaking in a languid tone. She had assumed very much the air of a fine lady all of a sudden: she was not going to be patronised by a solicitor's daughter, and she had divined in Patience Hancock an enemy. "The Zoo is very much like the world: there is much to laugh at and much to endure. Taken as a whole, it is not an unmixed blessing."