“Angrezini!”
A sturdy negro helped her out.
“For Thou knowest very well——” her lips moved faintly.
The swinging doors whirled her in.
She found herself directly in a small bemirrored room with a hatch on one side of it, in which an old woman in a voluminous cap was serenely knitting.
Behind her dangled furs and wraps that scintillated or made pools of heavy shade as they caught or missed the light.
Relinquishing her own strip of tulle, Miss Sinquier turned about her.
Through a glass door she could make out Mrs. Sixsmith herself, seated in a cosy red-walled sitting-room beyond.
She was looking staid as a porcelain goddess in a garment of trailing white with a minute griffin-eared dog peeping out its sheeny paws and head wakefully from beneath her train.
At sight of her guest Mrs. Sixsmith smiled and rose.