“I always said she was more than a woman,” sobbed Mrs. Hauksbee, hysterically, “and that proves it!”
Six weeks later, Mrs. Bent and Dora had returned to the hotel. Mrs. Hauksbee had come out of the Valley of Humiliation, had ceased to reproach herself for her collapse in an hour of need, and was even beginning to direct the affairs of the world as before.
“So nobody died, and everything went off as it should, and I kissed The Dowd, Polly. I feel so old. Does it show in my face?”
“Kisses don't as a rule, do they? Of course you know what the result of The Dowd's providential arrival has been.”
“They ought to build her a statue—only no sculptor dare copy those skirts.”
“Ah!” said Mrs. Mallowe, quietly. “She has found another reward. The Dancing Master has been smirking through Simla giving every one to understand that she came because of her undying love for him—for him—to save his child, and all Simla naturally believes this.”
“But Mrs. Bent”—
“Mrs. Bent believes it more than any one else. She won't speak to The Dowd now. Isn't The Dancing Master an angel?”
Mrs. Hauksbee lifted up her voice and raged till bedtime. The doors of the two rooms stood open.