“Is it really Mrs. Clutton?” she said, with an artificial accent, as if it were broad day and Bond Street.
“Pamela! Pamela! Really? But what are you doing alone? Where is Mr. Jayne?”
The little dark, vivacious woman’s eyes contracted as they rested on this wild figure with the wretched, haggard face, the clown-like smile.
Pamela said nothing. She began to cry in a low, terrified fashion, like a lost child. The other took her by the shoulder and led her up the flagged path to the door.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
SHE opened the wide door into a hall which blazed with a yellow carpet and led the way into a room which was lighted with a shaded reading-lamp. The room instantly appealed to Pamela with a sense of dear familiarity. It was filled with furniture and china from the Buttery.
“Sit down. It is Mrs. Nick Hone’s chair. She used to stand her washing-tub on it; Tim says it is worth five pounds.”
A little fire burned in the grate although it was a summer night. On the bare table of brown oak was a tray set with tea things.
“I always like a cup of tea when I come home from a party; it makes me sleep. I’ll get another cup. You remember Mrs. Silas Daborn’s corner cupboard?” She opened it and brought out the china.