“Stones are so dangerous,” feebly remarked Lady Currey, “but after all, men know best. I’ve never interfered with my husband.”
Claudia said nothing more as she went to take off her hat. She wished she had been at home. Yet, after all, if Gilbert had made up his mind to go, would she have been able to prevent his going? The Curreys were not used to women “interfering,” and he was not a child.
It was nearly seven when she went downstairs, but the carriage had not returned. Sir John had refused to have the house put on the telephone, so they could get no news. She and Billie went into the library, and she tried to read, but it was only a pretence. Her ears were listening for the sound of carriage-wheels. It was almost dark. Surely they ought to be home by now. Still, a horse-brougham is not like a motor. The hills were rather worse coming back.
At half-past seven Lady Currey came in, carefully arrayed for dinner.
“Claudia, aren’t you going to dress? You’ll be late.” Though the heavens might fall, Lady Currey would punctually and carefully dress for dinner.
“I’m getting anxious,” said her daughter-in-law shortly. “They will be late too.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, and there’s a fish soufflé. John does so dislike a heavy soufflé. But of course it can’t be helped. It is late. You don’t think any accident has happened?”
“I hope not.”
“Claudia, do you think it is healthy to nurse a dog on your lap? But there, he’s your dog! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and Claudia was just getting up to do something—she hardly knew what—when at last she heard the sound of wheels. A growing sense of disaster lifted. The wheels had a homely, encouraging sound. For once there was some irregularity in the Currey ménage. Claudia rushed to the door herself and opened it.