“And who, pray, is Lolotte?”
Upon this query there followed another gasp; but this time it came from the causer of the first. Was it possible that there existed in the civilized world a benighted being who had not heard of Lolotte?—an establishment where she was as unmentionable as Sir Algy? The poor young creature, who became suddenly conscious of the terrible faux pas which her beautifully shod feet had taken, threw an agonized glance of entreaty for help at Edward. “You know Lolotte,” it said dumbly; “for goodness’ sake say something, and get me out of this horrible entanglement.” But Edward maintained a masterly, if cowardly, inaction.
CHAPTER V
Though early hours—except in the topsy-turvy sense of seeing the sunrise overnight—had never entered into the scheme of Miss Ransome’s existence, and she was as little indebted to the lamb as to the lark for an example, yet never had clock uttered a more welcome sound than that single stroke of half-past ten, which made Mrs. Tancred, as if by machinery, fold up her large seam, restore it to its basket, and rise from her chair. The clocks at Stillington struck all together, for all were true to Greenwich as the needle to the pole.
“You are probably tired,” said the hostess; and the guest was reduced to such a jelly-like state of tremor and self-distrust that she did not know whether to acquiesce in or disclaim the accusation. If she admitted fatigue, Camilla would probably despise her; if she denied, it would very likely—judging by her past experience of husbands and wives—be looked upon as a manœuvre for procuring a tête-à-tête with Edward in the smoking-room. So she answered, with deferential hesitation—
“Just pleasantly; nothing to speak of. Thank you so much.”
“Thank me for what? For telling you that you are tired?”
It was a discomfiting way of taking a little meaningless courtesy, but at least it ended in landing Bonnybell in the blessed security of her own bedroom. For, except that there was nothing to speak of in the way of eatables and drinkables provided for the night—Mrs. Tancred being of the antediluvian race who suppose that people after an admirable eight-o’clock dinner do not need cold cutlets or quails to sustain them till morning—she found herself extremely, roomily comfortable; and having got into a dressing-gown, with more lace and openwork about it than Camilla would think quite moral, threw herself into an admirably stuffed armchair, to take stock of her own blunders, and ask herself whether they were quite irreparable.
“Oh, what would I give for a cigarette! but I suppose that that would about finish me. However many miles off her rooms may be, she would be certain to smell it, and it is too cold to smoke out of the window.”
Her thoughts went back regretfully to the many little pleasant evening smokes in old Tom’s den in Hill Street, when Felicity was safely away at some committee meeting. “It shall be as you wish. God bless you, dear!” She laughed out loud again, as she had done in the train.