Nan said, "This is Stephen Lumley, mother. My mother, Stephen," and left them to do the rest, watching, critical and aloof, to see how they would manage the situation.
Mrs. Hilary managed it by rising from her chair and standing rigidly in the middle of the room, breathing hard and staring. Stephen Lumley looked enquiringly at Nan.
"How do you do, Mrs. Hilary," he said. "I expect you're pretty well played out by that beastly journey, aren't you."
Mrs. Hilary's voice came stifled, choked, between pants. She was working up; or rather worked up: Nan knew the symptoms.
"You dare to come into my presence.... I must ask you to leave my daughter's sitting-room immediately. I have come to take her back to England with me at once. Please go. There is nothing that can possibly be said between you and me—nothing."
Stephen Lumley, a cool and quiet person, raised his brows, looked enquiry once more at Nan, found no answer, said, "Well, then, I'll say good-bye," and departed.
Mrs. Hilary wrung her hands together.
"How dare he! How dare he! Into my very presence! He has no shame...."
Nan watched her coolly. But a red spot had begun to burn in each cheek at her mother's opening words to Lumley, and still burned. Mrs. Hilary knew of old that still-burning, deadly anger of Nan's.
"Thank you, mother. You've helped me to make up my mind. I'm going to Capri with Stephen next week. I've refused up till now. He was going without me. You've made up my mind for me. You can tell Mr. Cradock that if he asks."