“Fancy!” she said at last—“fancy! Eustace Lovegood!” And she looked down at the fragile figure at her knees. She saw that the slender frame was grown more sadly slender—the thin hands more sadly transparent—the fire of the strange and awful disease was eating her blood. The girl was torn with the feverish energy of the devil of consumption, that whispered urgingly at her elbow to live her moment at the topmost pitch of energy or she would be too late.
Betty was roused from her brooding by the shuffle of footsteps that ascended the stairs outside—and the sound of light-hearted laughter.
“Moll, quick! here they come!”
She bent down and kissed the girl:
“Let me think it out,” she said—“we must do something. I’ll do it. I know Eustace Lovegood well.... Now you are hostess—stand up—and take command of yourself.... That’s right.” She sprang to the door, unlocked it, and skipped back to the other.
There was a loud knock.
The Five Foolish Virgins trooped in, headed by Gaston Latour, playing on the French horn what was soon discovered to be “Yankee Doodle”—with a strong French accent.