Phyllis listened, smilingly, to Mrs. Farquharson's gossip about her lodgers.
"'Never again,' he says to me solemnly, and pointing at me with his long finger. 'The keys I shall leave in the cases as I ever have, but never again touch dust-cloth to my fans and patch-boxes!' And never have I since that day, which is seven years if it's a minute. He dusts them himself of a Sunday morning. I've caught him at it!" Mrs. Farquharson picked a thread from her skirt, and carefully wound it around her finger.
"Speaking of catching him at it reminds me of that Mrs. Burbage," she continued. She never referred to her save as "that" Mrs. Burbage; the designation expressed anathema. "I have wondered, did ever it occur to you whether Sir Peter asked that Mrs. Burbage to take the advertisements to the papers; it being my belief that if he ever did she never did. And consequently, however could I see them, and know my deary dear wanted her old nurse?"
The whir of a motor, immediately below the windows, caused Mrs. Farquharson to look out.
"Whoever is that now? A man in leggings and a middle-aged woman in spectacles. I never set eyes on her before. He's beginning to take the little leather trunks out. Whatever is—"
Phyllis's intuition was swift as light. A glimpse from another window, and—
"It is Uncle Peter's car, Farquharson," she exclaimed. "The boxes are the old Valentines you remember so well—that I sent for yesterday. The woman is——"
"That Mrs. Burbage, of course. She found me quick enough when she wanted to!"
Phyllis was in flight down the stairs. Mrs. Farquharson smoothed her hair, and followed majestically. They met in the hall. While Thompson carried the boxes up, Phyllis introduced the rivals. They talked for a few moments constrainedly, surveying each other as though watchful for an opening. When the last of the cases had gone up Phyllis said:—
"I want to hear news of my uncle, and show Burbage our pretty rooms. You will excuse us, Farquharson, won't you?"