"No, sir."
This was baffling.
"Lady Wicketts is staying here, I believe,"—murmured Roxmouth—"Can
I—er?"
"Her ladyship has the neuralgy and is lying down, my lord," and an acute observer might have noticed the tremor of a wink in Primmins' eye—"Miss Fosby is in the drawing-room."
With a profound sigh Roxmouth glanced at Longford. That gentleman smiled a superior smile.
"We should like to see Miss Fosby."
Primmins at once threw open the door more widely.
"This way, if you please!"
In another moment they were ushered into the presence of Miss Fosby, who, laying aside her embroidery, rose with punctilious ceremony to receive them.
"Lady Wicketts is not well,"—she said, in tenderly lachrymose accents—"Dear Lady Wicketts! She is always so good!—always thinking of other people and doing such kind things!—she fatigues herself, and she is so delicate—ah!—so very delicate! She is suffering from neuralgia, I am sorry to say!"