Mother was seated in the drawing-room, looking stately, a little nervous, and very beautiful. The ladies of the establishment were fussing round her. They had already made her into a sort of queen, and she certainly looked regal to-night.
The servant came up and announced that the carriage was waiting. We went downstairs. It was a little brougham, dull chocolate in colour. A coachman in quiet livery sat on the box; a footman opened the door for us. The brougham was drawn by a pair of chestnuts.
"Most unsuitable," I murmured to myself. "What sort of man is Mr. Randolph?"
Mother, however, looked quite at home and happy in the little brougham. She got in, and we drove off. It was now the middle of November, and I am sure several faces were pressed against the glass of the drawing-room windows as we were whirled rapidly out of the Square.
CHAPTER XI
WHY DID HE DO IT?
Mr. Randolph had engaged a private room at the hotel. We sat down three to dinner. During the first pause I bent towards him and said in a semi-whisper—
"Why did you send that grand carriage for us?"
"Did it annoy you?" he asked, slightly raising his brows, and that quizzical and yet fascinating light coming into his eyes.
"Yes," I replied. "It was unsuitable."
"I do not agree with you, Westenra," said mother.