“We won’t trouble you for your opinions, my friend,” said Sir Hubert, throwing a florin lightly into the man’s hand. “You’d better take your beast home, and give yourself a hot drink. I’ll take care of Miss Marchant and her sisters.”
“Oh, but really,” said Swansdownhood, “it is immensely good of you—only they had better send a fly for us after the dance. We can’t encroach upon you for the home journey.”
“Why not? Of course we shall take you home. Come along; I’m afraid you’re catching cold while we’re talking.”
He marched the three girls—the spokeswoman and tallest all in white from top to toe, the second with a black lace frock showing below her Stuart shawl, the third muffled in a blue opera cloak and a blue Shetland scarf, commonly called a cloud.
“Here are the Miss Marchants, come to claim your hospitality,” said Sir Hubert to his wife; whereupon Maud replied, graciously—
“Oh, how do you do, you poor things? Pray come in. How cold you must be! Did your carriage break down? How dreadful! I’m afraid there’s not much heat left in our foot-warmers, but it is tolerably warm here still”—the atmosphere inside the ’bus was tropical—“and I hope you’ll be able to make yourselves comfortable.”
“Such a dreadful intrusion!”
“Such a herd of us!”
“How you must all detest us!” cried three fresh young voices all at once.
The three Champernownes and the Green maintained a stolid silence. Those four pairs of eyes were coldly appraising the intruders—their faces, their dress, their social status, everything about them.