When the fright was upon her, the sight of Lady Molyneux calmly munching her muffins seemed awful; General Grampound stirring his tea was tragic, as the figure of a man whom she had betrayed and murdered; Uncle Molyneux and his eye-glass seemed the incarnation of saintly propriety; and the “Violet, dear, another cup of tea, without quite so much milk,” of Lady Seagrave, the last word of pathos, and a thing to make one weep.
All these people were about to be betrayed. They all seemed either so foolish or so old, all so unsuspecting.
That they were, in fact, a company of robbers of the worst description, banded together with the object of stealing her happiness and ruining her life, never for a moment occurred to her.
She pitied them.
Then, rocked suddenly on a billow of bliss, pity and fear vanished utterly; Dicky Fanshawe entered her mind, and she put two lumps of sugar instead of two tabloids of saccharine in General Grampound’s cup, and scarcely heard the explosion.
“Miss Lestrange!”
Violet was crossing the hall after the tea ordeal; she looked up. A pasty little face was looking over the banisters. It was Lord Gawdor’s.
“We’re decorating the nursery for Christmas; come’n help.”
Miss Lestrange came up the stairs, and little Lord Gawdor seized her in a loving embrace with his arm half round her waist. Like this they marched along, up another flight of stairs and down the corridor to the nursery.
“They’re putting two shillings’ worth of thripenny pieces in the pudding,” said Lord Gawdor. “I’ve had a stir at it—have you had a stir at it? It’s only eight days to Christmas—I’m to have a watch—a gold one—with a minute hand, but you’re not to tell, for it’s to be a surprise. Don’t you hope it’ll snow on Christmas Day?—I expect you’ll have lots of presents, too. Shall I tell you a secret?”