“And then,” said Braybrooke, “I am sure he will paint you.”
It was meant to be a very charmingly turned compliment. But Miss Van Tuyn received it rather doubtfully.
“I don’t know that I want to wait quite so long as that,” she murmured. “Besides—I think I rather come in between. At least, I hope so.”
At this point in the conversation the cab stopped before the Ritz.
To Francis Braybrooke’s intense astonishment—and it might almost be added confusion—the first person his eyes lit on as they walked towards the tea-tables was Fanny Cronin, comfortably seated in an immense arm-chair, devouring a muffin in the company of an old lady, whose determined face was completely covered with a criss-cross of wrinkles, and whose withered hands were flashing with magnificent rings. He was so taken aback that he was guilty of a definite start, and the exclamation, “Miss Cronin!” in a voice that suggested alarm.
“Oh, old Fanny with Mrs. Clem Hodson!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “She’s a school friend of Fanny’s from Philadelphia. Let us go to that table in the far corner. I’ll just speak to them while you order tea.”
“But I thought Miss Cronin never went out.”
“She never does, except with Mrs. Clem, unless I want her.”
“How singularly unfortunate I am to-day!” thought Braybrooke, as he bowed to Miss Cronin in a rather confused manner and went to do as he was told.
He ordered tea, then sat down anxiously to wait for Miss Van Tuyn. From his corner he watched her colloquy with the two school friends from Philadelphia, and it seemed to him that something very important was being told. For Fanny Cronin looked almost animated, and her manner approached the emphatic as she spoke to the standing girl. Mrs. Hodson seemed to take very little part in the conversation, but sat looking very determined and almost imperious as she listened. And presently Braybrooke saw her extremely observant dark eyes—small, protuberant and round as buttons—turn swiftly, with even, he thought, a darting movement, in his direction.