She took the Major’s arm, while I hurried to the card-room. As luck would have it, the old lady was in the act of rising from the green table, having just cut out from a rubber. Mr. Robbie was her partner; and I saw (and blessed my star for the first time that night) the little heap of silver, which told that she had been winning.
“Miss Gilchrist,” I whispered, “Miss Flora is faint: the heat of the room—”
“I’ve not observed it. The ventilation is considered pairfect.”
“She wishes to be taken home.”
With fine composure she counted back her money, piece by piece, into a velvet reticule.
“Twelve and sixpence,” she proclaimed. “Ye held good cards, Mr. Robbie. Well, Mosha the Viscount, we’ll go and see about it.”
I led her to the tea-room: Mr. Robbie followed. Flora rested on a sofa in a truly dismal state of collapse, while the Major fussed about her with a cup of tea. “I have sent Ronald for the carriage,” he announced.
“H’m,” said Miss Gilchrist, eyeing him oddly. “Well, it’s your risk. Ye’d best hand me the teacup, and get our shawls from the lobby. You have the tickets. Be ready for us at the top of the stairs.”
No sooner was the Major gone than, keeping an eye on her niece, this imperturbable lady stirred the tea and drank it down herself. As she drained the cup—her back for the moment being turned on Mr. Robbie—I was aware of a facial contortion. Was the tea (as children say) going the wrong way?