Two black men now bore out the Governor’s state sedan-chair, upholstered in crimson cloth and gold fringe, the outside painted cream-colour. It had one large glass door.
Lady Phipps hovered near, a feather duster in her hand.
Lord Christopher next appeared, leaning on two slaves, his face pale from his recent bleeding. Groaning, he seated himself in the chair. When he was comfortably settled, one of the slaves at her ladyship’s direction shut the door.
Abigail saw Lord Christopher’s face change from pallor to crimson.
He strove to open the door, but it was locked on the outside. He rapped sharply on the glass and shouted to the slave to let him out.
Lady Phipps, alarmed lest he have a fit or break the door, opened it herself.
“Madam,” said the great physician, fixing her with his stern eye, “was it at your request that I was boxed up in this ungodly conveyance to suffocate to death?”
“Sir,” replied she with spirit, “my glass door shall not go swinging loose to hit against the bearers’ heels and be broken on the journey.”
“Madam,” thundered he, “am I to suffocate to gratify your inordinate vanities?”
Her ladyship tilted her chin in the air. “Sir,” she replied, “nothing could compensate me for the breaking of that door.”