Sir Toby suddenly decided to seek refuge elsewhere.
With a sigh of relief Elfreda lowered the ample pages of the Society Pictorial, behind which she had entrenched herself. “No family should be without you, Pikey,” she said gratefully.
The train moved on. But somehow the incident caused Elfreda’s resentment to flame even higher. She had yet to meet the author of “The Lady of Laxton,” but she was amazingly quick in taking the measure of the world at large. In regard to her fellow creatures her opinions were few, but they were very definite. A first view of Sir Toby Philpot had convinced her that his reputation was deserved and that she was bound to dislike him intensely. It was all very unfair, no doubt, but she belonged to the sex which, with all its virtues, will never be able to run a League of Nations.
Again her eyes strayed across to the student of The Patrician. Poor Miss Cass ... and yet ... lucky Miss Cass! Then it was in just that fragment of time while she gazed at the slow-moving pencil of the “Lady of Laxton” that a diabolical thought began to take shape in her mind....
If only....
It would score them off properly....
Above all it would teach a certain Person a lesson....
Elfreda began to hug her wicked thoughts. Fate itself appeared to be taking some trouble to play into her hands. Surely a great opportunity was being given her if only she could rise to the height of it. But even if that was the case there was still one very vital question to ask and to answer. Could the girl opposite be screwed up to the requisite pitch of nerve and enterprise?
No sooner had Elfreda put this question to herself than she did a thing that naught can condone. Deliberately, of malice prepense, she forced Pikey and Miss Cass to finish the bottle. As far as the maid was concerned there was really no obstacle; she was more than willing to play her part. But Miss Cass needed tact and firmness; she had to be handled with masterful delicacy.
“Please—you will help us—won’t you?” The voice of the siren. “Yes—really—you must!” The daughter of the marquis dealt out honest measure with her own uncompromising hand. “That’s your glass, I think—the one at the top—isn’t it, Pikey?”