Valeria woke up with a start, and responded to Hubert’s greeting in an erratic fashion, replying tragically, to a casual enquiry as to her health, that she had been frightfully ill.
“I thought I was dying. But one never dies,” she added in a disgusted tone, whereat Hadria heartlessly laughed, and hurried the visitor upstairs to help her to unpack.
“Valeria,” said Mrs. Temperley, while that lady was confusedly trying to disentangle hat and hair, hat-pin and head, without involving the entire system in a common ruin—“Valeria, we are not a remarkable people at Craddock Dene. We may be worthy, we may have our good points, but we are not brilliant (except the cook). Should Mr. Fleming fail to impress you as a person of striking personality, I ask you, as a favour, not to emblazon that impression on every feature: should he address to you a remark that you do not find interesting, and it is quite conceivable that he may—do not glare at him scornfully for a moment, and——”
Hadria was not allowed to finish the sentence.
“As if I ever did any such thing—and people are so dull,” said Miss Du Prel.
A few “curried details,” as the hostess dejectedly described the fare, had been supplemented with vegetables, fruit, and impromptu preparations of eggs, and the luncheon was pronounced excellent and ample.
Miss Du Prel said that she hoped the butcher would always forget to send the meat. She liked these imaginative meals.
Temperley purposely misunderstood her to say “imaginary meals,” and hoped that next time she came, Hadria would not have an oratorio in course of composition. Miss Du Prel expressed a fiery interest in the oratorio.
“I judge the presence of oratorio by the absence of food,” Temperley explained suavely.
Hadria watched the encounter with a mingled sense of amusement and discomfort.