“She’s a real laidy, she is!” said Gladys to Maud; and Maud sniffed in assent, and answered strongly, “You bet your life!”
The inside of the house seemed out of all proportion with the outside appearance. This is a special peculiarity of the West End, which has puzzled many a visitor besides Claire Gifford. What is the magic which transforms narrow slips of buildings into spacious halls and imposing flights of stairways? Viewed from the street, the town houses of well-known personages seem quite inadequate for their purpose; viewed from within, they are all that is stately and appropriate. Those of us who live in less favoured neighbourhoods would fain solve the riddle.
Mrs Willoughby stood at the top of her own staircase, shaking hands with the stream of ascending guests, and motioning them forward to the suite of entertaining rooms from which came a steady murmur of voices. She was a stout woman, with a vast expanse of white shoulders which seemed to join right on to her head without any preliminary in the shape of a neck. Her hair was dark, and a plain face was lightened by a pair of exceedingly pleasant, exceedingly alert brown eyes. As soon as she met those eyes Claire felt assured that the kindness of which she had heard was a real thing, and that this woman could be counted upon as a friend. There was, it is true, a slight vagueness in the manner in which she made her greeting, but a murmur of “Mrs Fanshawe” instantly revived recollections.
“Of course—of course!” she cried heartily. “So glad you could come, my dear. I must see you later on. Reginald!”—she beckoned to a lad in an Eton suit—“I want you to take charge of Miss Gifford. Take her to have some coffee, and introduce her to some one nice.”
A nod and a smile, and Mrs Willoughby had turned back to welcome the next guest in order, while the Eton boy offered his arm with the air of a prince of the blood, and led the way to a refreshment buffet around which the guests were swarming with an eagerness astonishing to behold when one realised how lately they must have risen from the dinner-table. Claire found her young cavalier very efficient in his attentions. He settled her in a comfortable corner, brought her a cup of coffee heaped with foaming cream, and gave it as his opinion that it was going to be “a beastly crush.” Claire wondered if it would be tactful to inquire how he happened to be at home in the middle of a term; but while she hesitated he supplied the information himself.
“I’m home on leave. Appendicitis. Left the nursing home three weeks ago. Been at the sea, and came back yesterday in time for this show. Getting a bit tired of slacking!”
“You must be. Dear me! I am sorry. Too bad to begin so soon,” murmured Claire pitifully; but Master Reginald disdained sympathy.
“Oh, I dunno,” he said calmly. “It’s quite the correct thing, don’t you know? Everybody’s doing it. Just as well to get it through. It might”—he opened his pale eyes with a startled look—“it might have come on in the hols! Pretty fool I should have looked if I’d been done out of winter sports.”
“There’s that way of looking at it!” Claire said demurely. For a moment she debated whether she should break the fact that she herself was a school-mistress, but decided that it would be wiser to refrain since the boy would certainly feel more at ease with her in her private capacity. So for the next half-hour they sat happily together in their corner, while the boy discoursed on the subjects nearest his heart, and the girl deftly switched him back to the subjects more congenial.
“Yes, I love cricket. At least I’m sure I should do, if I understood it better... Do tell me who is the big old lady with the eyeglass and the diamond tiara?”