The first words the girl heard were in English. A woman’s voice was saying cheerfully, “There, my dear!” a simple formula of marvelous recuperative effect,—“there now! You are all right again. But your room is bitterly cold. Won’t you come into mine? It is quite near, and my stove has been alight all day.”
Helen, opening her eyes, found herself gazing up at Mrs. de la Vere. Real sympathy ranks high among good deeds. The girl’s lips quivered. Returning life brought with it tears.
The woman whom she had regarded as a social butterfly sat beside her on the bed and placed a friendly arm round her neck. “Don’t cry, you dear thing,” she cooed gently. “There is nothing to cry about. You are a bit overwrought, of course; but, as it happens, you have scored heavily off all of us—and not least off the creature who upset you. Now, do try and come with me. Here are your slippers. The corridor is empty. It is only a few steps.”
“Come with you?”
“Yes, you are shivering with the cold, and my room is gloriously warm.”
“But——”
“There are no buts. Marie will bring a basin of nice hot soup. While you are drinking it she will set your stove going. I know exactly how you feel. The whole world is topsyturvy, and you don’t think there is a smile in your make-up, as that dear American man who carried you here would say.”
Helen recovered her senses with exceeding rapidity. Mrs. de la Vere was already leading her to the door.
“What! Mr. Spencer—did he——”
“He did. Come, now. I shall tell you all the trying details when you are seated in my easy chair, and wrapped in the duckiest Shetland shawl that a red headed laird sent me last Christmas. Excellent! Of course you can walk! Isn’t every other woman in the hotel well aware how you got that lovely figure? Yes, in that chair. And here is the shawl. It’s just like being cuddled by a woolly lamb.”