She looked straight at Henry as she spoke.
“I’m going, whatever you say, and whatever you do, and I only came to you because——”
“Because——”
“Well, it seemed so sort of lonesome going off into situations of deadly peril with no one taking the very slightest interest.”
Jane’s voice shook absurdly on the last word. And in an instant Henry had his arm round her and was saying, “Jane—Jane—you shan’t go, you shan’t.”
Jane stepped back. Her eyes blazed. “And why?” she said.
She tried to say it icily, but she could not steady her voice. Henry’s arm felt solid and comfortable.
“Because I’m damned if I’ll let you,” said Henry very loud, and upon that the door opened and there entered Mrs. de Luttrelle March, larger, pinker, and more horrified than Jane had ever seen her. She, for her part, beheld Henry, his arms about a shabby girl, and her horror reached its climax when she recognised the girl as “that dreadfully designing Jane Smith.”
“Henry,” she gasped—“oh, Henry!”
Jane released herself with a jerk, and Mrs. de Luttrelle March sat down in the nearest chair and burst into a flood of tears. Her purple satin opera cloak fell away, disclosing a peach-coloured garment that clung to her plump contours and seemed calculated rather for purposes of revelation than concealment. Large tears rolled down her powdered cheeks, and she sought in vain for a handkerchief.