“I may be late. Don’t bother about me.”
She went out and shut the door, leaving old Fanny distressed. Something very serious was certainly happening. Beryl looked quite unusual, so strung up, so excited. What could be the matter? If only they could get back to Paris! There everything went so differently! There Beryl was always in good spirits. The London atmosphere seemed to hold poison. Even Bourget’s spell was lessened in this city of darkness and strange inexplicable perturbations.
That night, about a quarter to nine when Lady Sellingworth had just finished her solitary dinner and gone up to the drawing-room, a footman came in and said:
“Will you see Miss Van Tuyn, my lady? She has called and is in the hall. She begs you to see her for a moment.”
Two spots of red appeared in Lady Sellingworth’s white cheeks. For a moment she hesitated. A feeling almost of horror had come to her, a longing for instant flight. She had not expected this. She did not know what exactly she had expected, but it had certainly not been this.
“Did you say I was in?” she said, at last.
The footman—a new man in the house—looked uncomfortable.
“I said your Ladyship was not out, but that I did not know whether your Ladyship was at home to anyone.”
After another pause Lady Sellingworth said:
“Please ask Miss Van Tuyn to come up.”