"Good Heavens—those women again!" cried Mrs. Andrews, lifting hands and eyes.
No one else spoke. But in everyone's mind the same thought emerged. At any moment the door might open, and Delia Blanchflower and her chaperon might come in.
The doctor drew Winnington aside into a bow-window.
"Did you know that the lady living with Miss Blanchflower was a member of this League of Revolt?"
"Yes. You mean they are implicated in these things?"
"Certainly! I am told Miss Marvell was once an official—probably is still. My dear Winnington—you can't possibly allow it!" He spoke with the freedom of an intimate friend.
"How can I stop it," said Winnington, frowning. "My ward is of age. If Miss Marvell does anything overt—But she has promised to do nothing violent down here—they both have."
The doctor, an impetuous Ulsterman with white hair, and black eyes, shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "When women once take to this kind of thing"—he was interrupted by Mrs. Andrews' heavy voice rising above the rather nervous and disjointed conversation of the other guests—"If women only knew where their real power lies, Mrs. Matheson! Why, 'the hand that rocks the cradle'—"
A sudden crash was heard.
"Oh, dear"—cried Lady Tonbridge, who had upset a small table with a plate of cakes on it across the tail of Mrs. Andrews' dress—"how stupid I am!"