“Oh—oh! What will you think of me—what will you say!—I was obliged to earn some money—and half a crown a day was not enough,—Mrs Baker gives me half a crown. I—I go to another lady in the afternoons, and she is a Suffragette. She is very kind to me, and very patient, because I’m stupid, and can’t understand, and—and I don’t seem to care! I don’t want a vote, but she was Number Nine to-night, and she is ill—her throat is very bad, she might be dangerously ill if she came out. She would only stay at home if I promised to take her place, and, she has been very kind.—I promised, and now I’ve failed. I was too terribly frightened. And then I saw your face... Oh, what do you think of me?”
But John Baker refused to give any expression of opinion. All he said was:
“Half a crown a day! She offered you that! Oh, my poor little girl!” And his voice was so low and tender that at the sound of it Norah sobbed afresh.
“Don’t cry. Put on your hat. I will take you into the air, and drive you home in a taxi. You will feel better in the air,” said John quietly.
He gave her his arm, and escorted her into the corridor, and as they walked along, another roar sounded from within the precincts of the hall, and through an open doorway shot a dishevelled female form, struggling in the grasp of half a dozen stewards. Danvers herself! The faithful Danvers, who, seeing the collapse of her mistress’ proxy, had gallantly taken upon herself the duties of Number Nine. Norah shuddered, and grasped more tightly John’s protecting arm.
“Oh, what must you think of me?” she demanded once more; and John, looking down at her as they reached the cool air of the street, replied sturdily:
“I think that no woman can serve two masters. Can’t you make up your mind to take one instead?”