Chapter Twenty Three.
A Telegram.
As soon as her room was in order on the day of the reception, Sylvia began the delightful task of opening boxes and parcels, and laying their contents on the bed. The satin skirt was spread out with careful fingers, and over it a foam of frills and flounces which must surely have grown, since it was inconceivable that they could have been fashioned by mortal hands. Fan, and gloves, and little lacy handkerchief lay side by side on the pillows; little satin shoes stood at a jaunty angle, the crystal buckles shining in the sun. The pearl necklace, which had been a present from dad on her twenty-first birthday, lay on the toilet-table ready to be snapped on, and a spray of white roses and maiden-hair floated in a basin of water.
All was ready, and Sylvia beamed with delight at the result of her preparations. She had come upstairs ostensibly to rest, but in reality she was far too excited to settle down even to read, and could only wander about the room inventing one little duty after another, and weaving endless day-dreams. In a corner of the room stood her travelling-box, a convenient receptacle into which to put the new purchases as they arrived from the shops.
The travelling dress, the piles of cool garments for summer wear lay neatly packed away, looking fresh and dainty enough to have charmed any girl’s heart, but this afternoon Sylvia had no thought for the future; every hope and ambition was centred on the events of the next few hours.
Three o’clock! How slowly the time passed! Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—six hours still to while away before she would drive from the door with Pixie by her side, and Jack vis-à-vis, leaning forward to look her over, and exclaim in admiration at her fine feathers.
Sylvia could almost imagine that she heard him speak, and saw the sudden softening of the handsome eyes, and for once in her life she was inclined to rejoice that Bridgie was again staying at Park Lane, since Pixie and Pat would be so much engrossed in their own discussions as to ensure a virtual tête-à-tête for their companions. She rose restlessly from her seat and walked to the window. Was Pixie occupied even as she had been herself in laying out her dress for the evening? She peered curiously through the opposite windows, but no sign of the inhabitants was to be seen; she yawned, drummed her fingers against the pane, and stared idly down the road.
It was not a lively neighbourhood at the best of times, and to-day it seemed even duller than usual. A nurse was wheeling a perambulator along the pavement, a milkman’s cart was making slow progress from door to door, a telegraph-boy was sauntering down the middle of the road whistling a popular air. Sylvia wondered where he was going, and what was the nature of the message which he bore. Some people were so nervous about telegrams—Aunt Margaret, for instance! It was so rarely that her quiet life was disturbed by a message of sufficient importance to make it worth while for the sender to expend sixpence on its delivery.
Sylvia’s heart gave a leap of apprehension as the thought arose that perhaps the message was for the O’Shaughnessy household to tell of some dire accident which had interfered with the festivity of the evening. She had hardly time to breathe a sigh of relief as the boy passed the gate of Number Three before apprehension re-awoke as he approached her own doorway.