It was twenty minutes later.
Lady Mary Norcross—deep in the obligatory business of dressing for dinner—had just taken up a powder puff and was assiduously dabbing the back of her neck, when the door behind her opened softly and the voice of her liege lord travelled across the breadth of the room, saying:
“Mary! May I come in a minute, dear? I just want to get my cheque book out of your writing desk—that’s all.”
“Yes, certainly. Come in by all means,” gave back her ladyship. “I’m quite alone. Springer has finished with me, and oh! Good heavens! Seton! My dear, my dear!”
“All right. Don’t get frightened. It isn’t mine. And it isn’t his, either—much of it. We’ve been having a little ‘set to’ at the stable, and I got it hugging a policeman.”
“Seton!”
“Yes—I know it’s awful, but I simply couldn’t help it. Demmit it, Mary, don’t look so shocked—I’d have kissed the beggar as well, if I thought I could acquire the trick of that heavenly ‘jab with the left’ that way. I haven’t had such a beautiful time since the day I was twenty-one, darling; he fights like a blooming angel, that chap.”
“What chap? What on earth are you talking about?”
“That man Cleek. Weeping Widows! It was the prettiest job you ever saw. We’re sending the beggar over to the hospital—and——Tell you all about it when I get back. Can’t stop just now, dear. Bye, bye!”
Then the door closed with a smack, and man and cheque book were on their way downstairs.