And the wrinkled face and harsh lips fell into a contortion meant for a confidential smile; while through it all the eyes, wholly independent, studied the face beside her—closely, suspiciously—until the owner of it in her discomfort could almost have repeated aloud the words that were ringing in her mind—"I shall not go to Lady Parham's! My note will reach her on the stroke of eight."
"Certainly—I will keep an eye on her!" she said, lightly. "But you know—since her illness—"
"Oh no!" said Lady Parham, impatiently, "she is very well—very well indeed. I never saw her look so radiant. By-the-way, did you hear your son's speech the other night? I did not see you in the gallery. A great pity if you missed it. It was admirable."
Lady Tranmore replied regretfully that she had not been there, and that she had not been able to have a word with him about it since.
"Oh, he knows he did well," said Lady Parham, carelessly. "They all do. Lord Parham was delighted. He could do nothing but talk about it at dinner. He says they were in a very tight place, and Mr. Ashe got them out."
Lady Tranmore expressed her gratification with all the dignity she could command, conscious meanwhile that her companion was not listening to a word, absorbed as she was in a hawklike examination of the room through a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses.
Suddenly the eye-glasses fell with a rattle.
"Good Heavens!" cried Lady Parham. "Do you see who that is talking to Mr. Loraine?"
Lady Tranmore looked, and at once perceived Geoffrey Cliffe in close conversation with the leader of the Opposition. The lady beside her gave an angry laugh.
"If Mr. Cliffe thinks he has done himself any good by these ridiculous telegrams of his, he will find himself mistaken! People are perfectly furious about them."