“Mrs Clyde at home?” I asked of the handmaiden, who answered my summons.
Yes, Mrs Clyde was at home.
Would I walk in?
I would; and did.
So far, all was plain sailing:—now, came the tug of war.
Mrs Clyde was standing up, facing the door, as I entered the drawing-room into which the handmaiden had ushered me.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr Lorton?” she said, politely.
She never forgot her good breeding; and, I verily believe, if it had ever been her lot to officiate in Calcraft’s place, she would have asked the culprit, whom she was about to hasten on his way to “kingdom come,” whether he found the fatal noose too tight, or comfortable and easy, around his doomed neck! She would do this, too, I’m sure, with the most charming solicitude possible!
I noticed of her, that, whenever she was bent on using her sharpest weapons—of “society’s” armoury and, methinks, the devil’s forge-mark!—she always put on an extra gloss of politeness over her normal smooth and varnished style of address.
I didn’t like it, either.