The novel wasn't half as silly as some I've read—the hero reminded me of Blakely—and the chocolates were unusually good; I was having a much better time than I had expected. Then some one knocked at the door.
"Bother!" I thought. "It can't be anybody I wish to see; I'll not let them in."
The knock, was repeated. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe Blakely had changed his plans and had come for tea after all.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened slowly, and there, standing on the threshold, was— Had I gone quite mad? I rose from my chair and stared unbelievingly—at Blakely's mother.
"May I come in?" she asked in her even, well-bred voice.
"Why—yes," I faltered.
Closing the door behind her, she walked over to the fireplace.
"Won't you sit down?" I asked. "No, I thank you. This is not an afternoon call, Miss Middleton, it is—But of course you understand."
I didn't understand at all, and her manner of saying I did made me furious.