The very poignant feeling which underlay her desperate humour touched Mrs. Smithers to the quick. At all times she was inclined to treat facetiousness seriously, most of life's jokes having been made at her expense, and she saw more of Mary Compton's grief than the latter knew.
"My dear, don't you do nothing silly. You wouldn't see her dance."
"In London."
"No."
"In Paris, then——"
"Not in Paris—nowhere."
"But, Smithy——"
"If she did, she'd——" Mrs. Smithers took her tongue between her teeth. She leant across the table, her stiff old body quivering with menace. "Don't you breathe a word—don't you let on—if you do, I'll—I'll——"
What Mrs. Smithers would or would not have done Mrs. Compton never knew. In a state of uncomprehending consternation, she almost welcomed the diversion created by the entry of a frightened-looking servant.
"Mem-Sahib—if you please, Mem-Sahib——"