“It is her ladyship, my Lord, she arrived half an hour ago. Her luggage has gone upstairs.”
Her ladyship!
Jones thrown off his balance hesitated for a moment, what ladyship could it be. Not, surely, that awful mother!
He crossed to the door, opened it, found a music-room, and there, seated at a piano, the girl of the Victoria.
She was in out-door dress and had not removed her hat.
She looked over her shoulder at him as he came in, her face wore a half smile, but she did not stop playing. Anything more fascinating, more lovely, more distracting than that picture it would be hard to imagine.
As he crossed the room she suddenly ceased playing and twirled round on the music-stool.
“I’ve come back,” said she. “Ju-ju, I couldn’t stand it. You are bad but you are a lot, lot better than your mother—and Venetia. I’m going to try and put up with you a bit longer—Ju-Ju, what makes you look so stiff and funny?”
“I don’t know,” said Jones, passing his hand across his forehead. “I’ve had a hard day.” She looked at him curiously for a moment, then pityingly, then kindly.
Then she jumped up, made him sit down on a big couch by the wall, and took her seat beside him.