"Good-bye, Mrs. Welwyn," said Lady Adela calmly. "Thank you for--ah--entertaining us. I suppose one can get a cab here?"
She shook Mrs. Welwyn's nerveless hand and turned to Mr. Mainwaring, who stood awkwardly smoothing his hat.
"Are you ready, Abel?" she enquired.
Suddenly Tilly Welwyn rose from her knees by her grandmother's side, and, to employ a dramatic expression, took the centre of the stage. She stood face to face with her departing guests, her head thrown back and her hands clenched--a very slim, very upright, very dignified little figure.
"Sit down, please, everybody, if you will be so kind," she said quietly. "I shan't keep you long."
Lady Adela, looking like a boa-constrictor which has been challenged to mortal combat by a small and inexperienced chicken, stood stockstill, with her head oscillating from side to side in a slightly uncertain fashion. Then, recovering herself, she fell back in good order upon her supporters.
The Welwyns, closing loyally upon their small champion, spoke in anxious undertones.
"Don't chuck up the sponge, Sis," whispered Percy encouragingly. "We'll pull you through."
"Don't lose your head, my child," counselled her father. "You may make things worse."
"Tilly, dearie, can you ever forgive me?" was all Mrs. Welwyn said. She forgot, in her selfless grief for the destruction of her daughter's castle-in-the-air, that she herself had predicted its fall.