As she whisked away her heart throbbed fast. Through the light spring foliage she could see her father, with folded hands, pacing meditatively to and fro before the front of the house.
“Humbug!” she murmured, darting down a gravel path towards the tradesmen’s door.
Regaining her room, she promptly undid the seal.
“Panvale Priory, Shaftesbury Avenue, “London, W.
“Mrs. Albert Bromley presents her compliments to Miss S. Sinquier and will be pleased to offer her her experience and advice on Thursday morning next at the hour Miss Sinquier names.
“P.S. Mrs. Bromley already feels a parent’s sympathetic interest in Miss Sinquier. Is she dark or fair...? Does she shape for Lady Macbeth or is she a Lady Teazle?”
“Both!” Miss Sinquier gurgled, turning a deft somersault before the glass.
To keep the appointment, without being rushed, she would be obliged to set out, essentially baggageless, to-night—a few requisites merely, looped together and concealed beneath her dress, would be the utmost she could manage.
“A lump here and a lump there!” she breathed, “and I can unburden myself in the train.”
“Okh!”