“Dash the things! Let ’em lie!”
Acting on this resolution, the footsteps continued their way down the passage, and a door at the far end banged.
“H’m!” said Eliphalet Cardomay.
Emma came from the kitchen and entered her mistress’s parlour.
Mrs. Montmorency was seated in a wicker chair, and her head moved from side to side in a rhythmic measure. On the floor beside her lay various belongings—a bag, an umbrella and a pair of gloves. Upon her lap was a large brown-paper parcel, suggestive of the wine merchant, and this she grasped securely by a small leather handle.
She was a largely-built woman on the wrong side of fifty, and the clothes she wore would have befitted better a less advanced age. Large plaques of jewellery shone from her expansive bosom and implicated themselves in the lace and trimmings of her blouse. Across her shoulders was a fur cape, which, in conversational periods, she styled as “My mink.” An elaborate hat, at the moment somewhat awry, reposed upon her butter-coloured hair—hair dressed à la pompadour. Her face was a fine shade of purple, the intensity of which had been somewhat toned down by a liberal application of powder.
“I’ve let the rooms,” remarked Emma. “Theatricals—an old chap and ’is daughter.”
“Decidedly!” replied Mrs. Montmorency, her head still moving and increasing the raffish angle of her hat. “Decidedly! I should think so, indeed! Why, good gracious me, yes!”
“If you know all about it, there’s no call for me to tell you.”
“None whatever—decidedly not! What did you say?”