Angèle had changed her dress to a dark-blue serge and sailor hat. This was decidedly thoughtful. In her day attire she must have attracted a great deal of notice. Now, in the dark, neither the excellence of her clothing nor the elegance of her carriage would differentiate her too markedly from the village girls.
She was breathless with haste, but her tongue rattled on rapidly.
“Mamma is ill. I knew she would be. I told Françoise I had a headache, and went to bed. Then I crept downstairs again. Miss Walker nearly caught me, but she’s so upset that she never saw me. As for Fritz, if I meet him—poof!”
“What’s the matter with Mrs. Saumarez?” asked Martin.
“Trop de cognac, mon chéri.”
“What’s that?”
“It means a ‘bit wobbly, my dear.’”
“Is her head bad?”
“Yes. It will be for a week. But never mind mamma. She’ll be all right, with Françoise to look after her. Here! You pay for everything. There’s ten shillings in silver. I have a sovereign in my stocking, if we want it.”