“I’ve been to Lady Brayley, explained the whole thing, and got us both off. After all, she was a friend of my mother’s, and knew me in kilts and all that, so she ought to be ready to do me a favour. She looked a bit grim, but she’s done it. You’ve—only got to tip her a note of thanks.”
“You’re mad then, Fritz!”
Lady Holme stood up suddenly.
“Never saner.”
He put one hand into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope.
“Here’s what she says to you.”
Lady Holme tore the note open.
“BRAYLEY HOUSE, W.
“DEAR VIOLA,—Holme tells me you made a mistake when you accepted
my invitation for the first, and that you have long been pledged
to be present on that date at some theatrical performance or other.
I am sorry I did not know sooner, but of course I release you with
pleasure from your engagement with me, and I have already filled up
your places.—Believe me, yours always sincerely,
“MARTHA BRAYLEY.”
Lady Holme read this note carefully, folded it up, laid it quietly on the writing-table and repeated:
“You’re mad, Fritz.”