During that short drive, she encountered many glances—glances of interest, criticism or curiosity from women well-dressed as herself and bound upon some such mission as her own—glances of sharp speculation or sudden admiration from men driving, west or southward. And something of London's immensity, something of London's secrecy, came to her in those brief moments; she was stirred by the fact that has moved many another dweller in the vast city—the fact that every day, every night, some thousands of lives brush our own in a passing glance, in a stray word, in a chance touch, and then drift on into mystery, never to reappear.
Her thoughts were confused and excited as she descended from the cab and entered the Curzon Street house; but on the moment that she stepped into the hall, her dreams were banished. A door on her right opened, and her hostess hurried forward and kissed her effusively.
"You dear thing!" she cried. "Wasn't it abominable of me? Was the arrival desperately weary? Come up to my bedroom. The men haven't come yet. What ages it seems since we said good-bye at Nice! How are you?" She talked in her masterful voice, without waiting for a reply, until they entered the bedroom. There her maid, who was busying herself at the dressing-table, came forward to assist Clodagh; but Lady Frances checked her at once.
"Mrs. Milbanke won't need you, Rees. I'll take off her cloak."
Rees moved obediently towards the door; but there she ventured to pause for a moment.
"I hope you had a comfortable journey, madam," she said.
Clodagh, invariably gracious to her inferiors, turned to her warmly.
"Thank you, Rees! An excellent journey! But I'm glad to see everybody look so well." She added the last with a little smile, to which the maid responded as she closed the door.
Lady Frances laughed.
"You have bewitched Rees!" she said. "But you do that as you eat or sleep—by instinct. Let me look at you!" She laid her hands on Clodagh's shoulders and turned her towards the light.