“You have had nothing since lunch, ma’am.”
“I can’t eat anything—yes,” as Benson looked distressed, “some bread and butter. You can leave that and the tea—but take away all the rest, please. And then give me Bradshaw—and I want you to pack before you go to bed. It is not very late, is it?”—looking hopelessly at the watch on her chatelaine, but unable to see the quaint old figures with those tired eyes.
“Past eleven, ma’am; but I can pack to-night, if you like. Are we to leave early to-morrow?”
Eve turned the leaves of Bradshaw before she answered, and pored over a page for a few minutes.
“The Continental train leaves Charing Cross at eight,” she said.
“Then I must certainly pack to-night, ma’am. Shall I take many dresses—evening gowns—tea-gowns? Shall you be going out much in the evenings?”
“I shan’t be going out at all. Take my plainest walking gowns, and, yes, a tea-gown or two; one black evening gown will do. Take plenty of things. I shall be abroad a long time.”
“It is very sudden, ma’am,” faltered Benson, who was honestly fond of her mistress.
“Yes, it is very sudden. You must not ask me any questions. You must take it on trust that there is nothing wrong in my life.”
“Oh, ma’am, I should never think that, whatever happened. I know you too well. Are we going to join Mr. Vansittart on the Continent?”