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In the withdrawing-room of a small house near Kew Gardens, Mrs. Philip Raider was gazing at a piece of pinkish paper in her hand, as if it had been one of those spiders of which she had so constitutional a horror. Opposite her chair her son had risen; and against the wall her daughter had ceased suddenly to play Brahms’ Variations on a theme by Haydn.
“He says to-night!”
The girl dropped her hands from the keys. “To-night? I thought it was next month. Just like father—without a word of warning!”
The son mechanically took out his pipe, and began polishing its bowl. He was fresh-faced, fair, with a small head.
“Why didn’t he tell us to meet him in London? He must know we’ve got to come to an arrangement.”
The daughter, too, got up, leaning against the piano—a slight figure, with bushy, dark, short hair.
“What are we to do, Mother?”
“Jack must go round, and put Mabel and Roderick off for this evening.”