Then she sat down and began to cry.
[CHAPTER II.]
FLOATING WITH THE STREAM.
Lady Dudgeon's morning-room in Harley Street. At her davenport near the window, pen in hand, sat her ladyship, where, indeed, she was to be found at eleven a.m. six mornings out of seven. On the ridge of her high nose was perched the double gold-rimmed eye-glass which she had taken to wearing of late in the privacy of the family circle, but the existence of which, outside that circle, was kept a profound secret.
On a low chair close by, in a pretty morning-dress, sat Eleanor Lloyd. London life and London hours were beginning to tell upon her already. There was a look of weariness in her eyes, and her cheeks had lost a little of that fresh, delicate bloom which she had brought with her from the country, but which cannot exist long in the atmosphere of Belgravian ballrooms.
At Lady Dudgeon's elbow stood Olive Deane, with her black dress, her snowy collar and cuffs, her colourless face, her black, lustreless hair, and her fathomless eyes--in every point precisely the same as at the time when first we met her. Her ladyship had just been issuing invitations for a grand ball to be given at Stammars, during the ensuing Easter recess, to Sir Thomas's chief supporters at the recent election.
"There, thank goodness, that finishes the last batch of twenty!" said her ladyship, as she put down her pen with an air of relief. "I don't think that I have forgotten any one, or, for the matter of that, invited any one that we could have afforded to ignore. There are eighty of them altogether, leaving out of question the tribe of wives and daughters--quite as many as we can reasonably accommodate." Then, turning to Olive, she added, "Will you kindly see that the whole of the invitations are sent off by this afternoon's post?"
"I will take care to post them myself. Has your ladyship any further commands?"
"None whatever at present, thank you."
Olive bowed, and left the room.