"I cannot agree with you," Mrs. Verulam said, recovering her composure.
He looked at her almost with fear.
"What—what is the meaning of this possession?" he said. "Who is this man, this person—Bush?"
Mrs. Verulam flushed angrily.
"Please don't speak of my friends like that," she said.
"I beg your pardon. I will go. I had better go. I must have air—I must have air."
And he rose and tottered out, leaving Mrs. Verulam in a state of mingled indignation and alarm. She went to the window, and saw Francis assisting him into the black-and-green cab. His upward movements to reach the step were like those of one decrepit with age. When the cab had driven slowly away in the direction of Piccadilly, she sat down at the writing-table and went on with her interrupted note.
"My dear Mr. Bush,
"I remember very well, when we met at Basildene on that unforgettable day when you were helping my friend Mrs. Ringden to swarm her bees—is that the right expression?—you told me of your righteous hatred against the doings of society, and expressed your unalterable determination never to enter what is, ridiculously enough perhaps, called the gay world. Nevertheless, I want to persuade you to take a little holiday from your noble labour of working in your garden, and seeing after your farm at Bungay, and to join me at Ascot in June for the race week. I see a 'No' rising to your lips. But wait a moment before uttering it. Let me tell you first that, moved by weariness of my empty life in town, and stirred by your example and your maxims—'There's nought like pea-podding,' etc.—I intend to retire from society at the end of June, and to emulate your beautiful intimacy with Mother Nature. This Ascot party is practically my farewell, and my beginning of better things. Confidently, therefore, I summon you to be present at Ribton Marches, Sunninghill, Berks, from Monday to Saturday, June the — to the —, to support me in my determination, and assist me with your advice as to my future and more useful and fruitful life. Do not refuse. Mr. Minnidick will, I am certain, look after everything carefully in your absence, and I shall be really hurt if you say no. With kindest regards,
"Believe me,
"Yours very truly,
"Daisy Verulam."P.S.—How is the garden looking, and how are the sheep? No more ewes coughing, I hope? But that marvellous preparation of yours—'Not Elliman,' I always call it—has prevented all that, I know."
Mrs. Verulam put this note into an envelope with an eager hand, addressed it to "The Farm, Bungay Marshes, Lisborough," sent it to the post, and then hastened, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes, to Chloe Van Adam's bedroom.
Chloe was in bed, attended by the faithful Marriner, who had attained to that useful and beautiful age which permits a female to administer to a (supposed) suffering youth without the tongue of detraction being set instantly a-wagging. Nor could Mrs. Verulam's household, who laboured under the delusion that Chloe was her orange-growing husband, find much food for injurious gossip in the short and occasional visits—always chaperoned by Marriner—that the pretty hostess made to the chamber of her invalid guest. Having entered the room and carefully shut the door, Mrs. Verulam sat down by Chloe's bedside.