“What did you do?”
“I went out at once. I called on one or two people, I stayed out till nearly half-past seven. I walked about in the dark. I was afraid to go near the hotel. It was horrible. Finally I thought he must have gone and I ventured to go back. I hurried through the hall. The lift was there. I went into it at once. I didn’t look round. I was afraid he might have come down and be waiting about for me. When I got to our apartment I went straight to my bedroom and rang for my maid. She said he was gone. Then I went to Fanny. He had been having tea with her and had stayed two hours. He had—she’s very foolish, poor old thing!—he had completely fascinated her.”
Suddenly she blushed violently.
“I have no right to say that about Fanny. But I mean he had laid himself out to—”
“I quite understand,” said Lady Sellingworth, with a sort of awkward dryness which she could not evade though she hated herself for it.
It was hideous, she felt, being mixed up with this old Miss Cronin and Beryl Van Tuyn in a sort of horrible sisterhood of victims of this vile man’s fascination. Her flesh crept at the indignity of it, and all her patrician pride revolted at being remembered among his probably innumerable conquests. At that moment she felt punished for having so often in her life betrayed the best part of her nature.
“I quite understand, Beryl. You need not explain.”
“No.”
There was an unpleasant silence during which neither woman looked at the other. Then Lady Sellingworth said:
“But you haven’t told me everything. And if I am to—if anything is to be done, can be done, I suppose you had better tell me everything.”