“Hullo!” he said, coming in and seeing the tea-things on the table—Sally would be occupied with hot cakes at the last moment—“you’re expecting company.”
“The Duchessa di Corleone, Monsieur Paul, and Monsieur Christopher,” Pippa told him.
“Shall I be in the way?” asked Barnabas, looking at Miss Mason, “or may I stay?”
“You are never in the way,” said Miss Mason decisively.
Pippa sat down near him and slid one hand into his. And Miss Mason looked at them, and thought that only a year ago, and perhaps at that very hour, she had been sitting in a stiff drawing-room furnished with hideous chairs and ornamented with wax flowers under glass shades, listening to a long and minute account of Miss Stanhope’s ill-health, sleeplessness, and want of appetite. And because the contrast was so very great, her eyes grew a trifle misty with unshed happy tears, and she said a little prayer, that was certainly more Catholic than her distinctly Broad Church views realized, for Miss Stanhope’s present welfare.
And then suddenly voices were heard outside the studio, a woman’s voice which Miss Mason seemed to recognize, and a man laughing.
The next moment Sally opened the door. Her eyes were round with awe.
“The Duchess——” the next words were indistinguishable—“Mr. Charlton, and Mr. Treherne,” she gasped. Already in her mind she was telling Jim that she had had the honour of ushering a real live Duchess into the studio.
The Duchessa di Corleone came into the room. Then she gave a little exclamation of astonishment and went forwards with outstretched hands.
“My fairy godmother!” she cried. And she was nearer truth than she had any idea as she spoke the words.