His grace of Brancaster turned upon his heel.
“Remember my Wednesday,” the old lady called after him in stentorian tones.
Whether George Betterton heard her or whether he did not it is doubtless well not to inquire. It is rather a failing with high personages that they are apt to be afflicted with a sudden and unaccountable deafness. The old lady’s voice could be heard at the other side of Bond Street, but her old acquaintance made no sign whatever that it had penetrated to him.
The yellow chariot moved on. Its occupant, looking exceedingly grim, and more than ever like a Gorgon or a dragon born out of due time, immediately proceeded to cut dead the inoffensive widow of a Baron in Equity who with her two pretty daughters was driving to the Grosvenor Galleries.
If there were those who could be deaf to her, there were also those to whom she could be blind. There can be no doubt that during the course of her long life she had had things far more her own way than is good for any human creature. But there were now those who were beginning openly to rebel from her despotic sway. George Betterton was not the only person who of late had been afflicted with deafness.
All the same, if the aspect of this old woman meant anything it was that its possessor had to be reckoned with. It had often been remarked by those of her friends who followed “the fancy,” that in certain aspects it bore a striking resemblance to that of an eminent pugilist. It was a very tight and hard and arbitrary mouth, and a general demeanor of perfectly ruthless sarcasm that returned to Hill Street at a quarter to five. The rebels must be brought to heel.
The redoubtable Caroline had been home about an hour, when suddenly, without any sort of warning, the Idea assumed an actual and visible guise. She was in the middle of a game of piquet, a daily exercise, Sundays excepted, in which she showed the greatest proficiency, which generally ended in the almost total annihilation of her adversary. Having “rubiconed” her gentlewoman, and having mulcted her in the sum of two shillings which Miss Burden could ill afford to lose, her Idea burst from its shell and walked abroad.
“Burden,” said the old lady, “do you remember the name of the person that was married by my sister Polly?”
Miss Burden was so much startled by the question that she could not answer immediately. Not only was its abruptness highly disconcerting, but its nature was even more so. It dealt with one outside the pale.
“Per-Perring—Perkins,” floundered Miss Burden. It was a name never mentioned in Hill Street upon any pretext whatever.