And then she felt an odd little doubt whether her innocence was quite so manifest as she supposed?
That doubt grew to uncomfortable proportions.
For two years she had been meeting Mr. Brumley as confidently as though they had been invisible beings, and now she had to rack her brains for just what might be mistaken, what might be misconstrued. There was nothing, she told herself, nothing, it was all as open as the day, and still her mind groped about for some forgotten circumstance, something gone almost out of memory that would bear misinterpretation.... How should she begin? “Isaac,” she would say, “I am being followed about London.” Suppose he denied his complicity! How could he deny his complicity?
The cab ran in through the gates of her home and stopped at the door. Snagsby came hurrying down the steps with a face of consternation. “Sir Isaac, my lady, has come home in a very sad state indeed.”
Beyond Snagsby in the hall she came upon a lost-looking round-eyed Florence.
“Daddy’s ill again,” said Florence.
“You run to the nursery,” said Lady Harman.
“I thought I might help,” said Florence. “I don’t want to play with the others.”
“No, run away to the nursery.”
“I want to see the ossygen let out,” said Florence petulantly to her mother’s unsympathetic back. “I never see the ossygen let out. Mum—my!...”