On the contrary, she had spent two whole hours contemplating, with very fixed attention, first the domestic circumstances of Colonel Horace Innes and their possible development, and then, with a pang of profoundest acknowledgment, the moral qualities which he would bring to bear upon them. She was further from knowing what course she personally intended to pursue than ever, when she heard the wheels roll up underneath; and she had worked herself into a state of sufficient detachment from the whole problem to reflect upon the absurdity of a bigamist rattling forth to discuss her probable ruin in the fanciful gaiety of a rickshaw. The circumstances had its value though; it lightened all responsibility for the lady concerned. As Madeline heard her jump out and give pronounced orders for the securing of an accompanying dachshund, it did not seem to matter so particularly what became of Violet Prendergast.
Mrs. Innes’s footsteps came briskly along the veranda. Madeline noted that there was no lagging. ‘Number seven,’ she said aloud; as she passed other doors, ‘Number eight—number nine! Ah! there you are.’ The door was open. ‘I wouldn’t let them bring up my card for fear of some mistake. How do you do? Now please don’t get up—you look so comfortable with your book. What is it? Oh, yes, of course, THAT. People were talking about it a good deal when I left London, but I haven’t read it. Is it good?’
‘I like it,’ said Madeline. She half rose as Mrs. Innes entered; but as the lady did not seem to miss the ceremony of greeting, she was glad to sink back in her chair.
‘And how do you like Simla? Charming in many ways, isn’t it? A little too flippant, I always say—rather TOO much champagne and silliness. But awfully bracing.’
‘The Snows are magnificent,’ Madeline said, ‘when you can see them. And there’s a lot of good work done here.’
‘Aren’t they divine? I did nothing, absolutely nothing, my first season but paint them. And the shops—they’re not bad, are they, for the size of the place? Though today, upon my soul, there doesn’t seem to be a yard of white spotted veiling among them.’
‘That is annoying,’ said Madeline, ‘if you want spotted veiling.’
‘Isn’t it? Well’—Mrs. Innes take a deep breath—‘you DIDN’T tell him last night?’
‘N—no,’ said Madeline, with deliberation.
‘I WAS grateful. I knew I could rely upon you not to. It would have been too cruel when we have only just been reunited—dear Horace would have had to sleep in the—’