Darcy began rather to like her accomplice. He was really quite nice—though old. “Count ten,” she advised. “It’s a better test.”
He began to count slowly, and an elderly lady who came down the aisle to take the chair opposite hastily sought the porter with a view to having her seat changed. When he had declaimed “Ten” and opened his eyes, the quite startling exclamation which followed convinced the old lady that her caution was well judged. The enumerator had found himself facing emptiness.
“Turn around,” directed a soft voice behind him.
He pivoted. “Oh!” he exclaimed in the most flattering tones of relief.
“The door of Drawing-Room B was getting nervous,” she said. “So I changed. I don’t want them to catch my eye. They might come out to speak to us.”
“Come one, come all,” declaimed the other; “this chair shall fly from its firm base as soon as I.”
“Fine poetry,” granted the girl. “But this is prose.”
“Nothing of the sort, if you’ll pardon me. Impossible and glorious romance. Words by Lewis Carroll. Music by Lohengrin. Mr. Brit-ling is for seeing it through.”
“Mr. Britling—if you’re sure that Mr. H. G. Wells would be willing to lend you the name—”
“I’ll chance it.”