That “and yet” was the cruel part. Up till now she had carried the thing off brilliantly. In a manner of speaking she had quite enjoyed the evening; so much had she appreciated its charm and its luxury that it had seemed like coming into one’s own. No matter what the sequel was, it would ever remain a golden memory almost capable of making any penalty worth while.
The dawn had begun already to steal through the Venetian blinds of King Edward’s bedroom before Girlie slept at all. All too soon she was aroused by a maid with a well filled tray. Face to face with the cold light of day and the naked reality of a perfectly stupendous present, the Deputy wisely determined that she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb; accordingly with a wrap round her shoulders she sat up in bed, made a tolerable breakfast and then put forth one more effort to fix her mind on “The Lady of Laxton.”
She was engaged in diligent study when Pikey entered to bestow a final word of admonition upon her before she set out for The Laurels. In spite of the fatigues of travel, Pikey, it seemed, had slept almost as ill as Miss No-Class. They shared an overwhelming responsibility. But the Deputy, comfortably in bed, showed herself very docile in the matter of getting up. She was quite content to stay as she was. It would suit her very well not to get up until the ambassadress returned from The Laurels; it would suit her even better not to get up at all.
The morning was fine and about half-past ten a gauntly-respectable Pikey set forth a grim figure of truculent despair. At the outset fortune was with her. A motor omnibus plied between Clavering and the neighboring villages, passing the Park gates every two hours in the process. Armed with sound advice from the housekeeper’s room, Pikey was able “to time” this vehicle and thereby to reach the Pendennis Arms at Clavering in something less than thirty minutes. Inquiry at that center of information disclosed the fact that The Laurels was some two miles away on the outskirts of the town. Colonel Trenchard-Simpson, it seemed, was a local auctioneer whose rank was a mystery and a wonder to the wise.
As no fly or other medium of travel was at hand, Pikey decided to walk to The Laurels. The house was not difficult to find, but the two miles proved to be nearly three, and it took Pikey, not feeling so young as she used to, the best part of an hour to get there. It was a rather mediocre dwelling, at any rate in the eyes of Pikey who had big ideas, standing a little back from the high road. There was a small plantation in front of it and there was no other house near, but Pikey’s first impression was that it didn’t amount to much; and when the disgruntled visitor opened its gate which was in need of a coat of paint and her rather dazed mind was suddenly flooded with a renewed sense of her mission, this impression was confirmed.
In the stress of a great crisis, Pikey had not paused en route to consider details of procedure, but now that she had reached her destination they simply had to be faced. Should she go up boldly to the front door and ring the bell? Certainly that seemed to be the right course to take. But then arose the question, for whom must she ask if she did so? For Pikey was now “up against” the fact that she had quite forgotten the name of Miss No-Class, even if, and it was a point upon which she was by no means clear, she had ever known it. However she did not spend much time in wreaking a vain rage upon herself, for she realized that by now she was a long way from Clavering Park, and that circumstances called sternly for action. Therefore without delay she walked along the carriage drive and rang the front door bell. The Laurels was a stucco residence of the glorified suburban villa type with A. D. 1880 engraved on the stone lintel.
The summons was answered by a slightly tarnished parlor-maid in a pink print dress. She was inclined to be pert and the aristocratic spirit of Pikey rose and fell in almost the same moment.
“Can I see the governess, please?” said Pikey, breathing hard. That, after all, was the only formula.
“She’s out with Miss Joan and Master Peter.” The parlor-maid regarded the visitor with an eye of frank disfavor.
Pikey’s heart sank. “Which way has she gone?” she bleakly inquired.