For a moment Snagsby surveyed the invasion with horror and then fled precipitately into the recesses of the house.
“Of course they’re at home!” said Lady Beach-Mandarin. “Fancy that—that—that navigable—trying to shut the door on us!”
For a moment the two brightly excited ladies surveyed each other and then Lady Beach-Mandarin, with a quickness of movement wonderful in one so abundant, began to open first one and then another of the various doors that opened into the long hall-living room. At a peculiar little cry from Miss Garradice she turned from a contemplation of the long low study in which so much of the Euphemia books had been written, to discover Sir Isaac behind her, closely followed by an agonized Snagsby.
“A-a-a-a-h!” she cried, with both hands extended, “and so you’ve come in, Sir Isaac! That’s perfectly delightful. This is my friend Miss Garradice, who’s dying to see anything you’ve left of poor Euphemia’s garden. And how is dear Lady Harman?”
For some crucial moments Sir Isaac was unable to speak and regarded his visitors with an expression that was unpretendingly criminal.
Then he found speech. “You can’t,” he said. “It—can’t be managed.” He shook his head; his lips were whitely compressed.
“But all the way from London, Sir Isaac!”
“Lady Harman’s ill,” lied Sir Isaac. “She mustn’t be disturbed. Everything has to be kept quiet. See? Not even shouting. Not even ordinarily raised voices. A voice like yours—might kill her. That’s why Snagsby here said we were not at home. We aren’t at home—not to anyone.”
Lady Beach-Mandarin was baffled.
“Snagsby,” said Sir Isaac, “open that door.”