She ran upstairs, put on her hat, and in a few minutes was driving in a hansom to Bruton Street. The Bethunes' footman knew her and admitted her, though Lady Francis was technically "not at home."
Yes, her ladyship was in, but she was engaged with the doctor at the moment in the drawing-room. The footman hesitated. "They were a-tuning of the piano in her ladyship's boudoir," he said, and he tentatively opened the door of a room on the ground floor. It was Lord Francis' sitting-room.
"Was his lordship in?"
"No, his lordship had gone out early."
"Then I will wait here," said Mary, "if you will let her ladyship know that I am here."
The man withdrew.
Mary's face reddened with annoyance. She disliked the idea of telling Lady Francis she had changed her mind, and the discussion of the subject. Oh! why had she ever spoken of the subject at all? Why had she telegraphed that she would come?
The painful, reiterated stammering of the piano came to her from above. It seemed of a piece with her own indecision, her own monotonous jealousy.
Suddenly the front door bell rang, and an instant later the footman came in with a telegram, put it on the writing-table, and went out again.
Her telegram! Then she was not too late to stop it. She need not explain after all.