"Poor lamb!" said Mrs. Watton, throwing up her hands.
Harding laughed.
"Oh! Letty won't take it like a lamb—you'll see!"
"What can a woman do?" said his mother, scornfully. "A decent woman, I mean, whom one can still have in one's house. All she can do is to cry, and take a district."
When they reached Upper Brook Street, the butler reported that his mistress had just come in. He made, of course, no difficulty about admitting Lady Tressady's aunt, and Mrs. Watton sailed up to the drawing-room, followed by Harding, who carried his head poked forward, as was usual to him, an opera-hat under his arm, and an eyeglass swinging from a limp wrist.
As they entered the drawing-room door, Letty, in full evening-dress, was standing with her back to them. She had the last edition of an evening paper open before her, so that her small head and shoulders seemed buried in the sheet. And so eager was her attention to what she was reading that she had not heard their approach.
"Letty!" said Mrs. Watton.
Her niece turned with a violent start.
"My dear Letty!" The aunt approached, quivering with majestic sympathy, both hands outstretched.
Letty looked at her a moment, frowning; then recoiled impatiently, without taking any notice of the hands.