“No, only a sore throat; a cold probably. I dare say she will be better to-morrow.”
“A sore throat,” repeated Patricia meditatively. “I don’t like anything the matter with the throat. I should send for the doctor if I were you.”
“You would? Well then, I think you ought to help me to bear the brunt of Athelstan’s alarm. Come to dinner, and bring your she-dragon with you if you like. You know where we live: the other side of Richmond Park—Ravenscroft Hall. We dine at seven o’clock, but I shall expect you at half-past six. Now”—as Patricia prepared to remonstrate—“I know you are going to put all sorts of objections in the way, but I shall not accept one of them. I will take absolutely no refusal; you must come.”
“But, my dear Mamie, how can I?” The girl looked almost bewildered. “To meet the Premier in his own house at dinner, after he has been the means of sending my husband to the Antipodes! Oh, it’s impossible! Can’t you see the irony of it? There can be no friendship between a Montella and Athelstan Moore.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Countess, unconvinced. “Richmond is not Downing Street. In our own house we have nothing to do with politics; besides, Athelstan may not put in an appearance after all. Don’t be so absurdly sensitive, Pat; I want you to come.”
But Patricia still hesitated. The thought of being a guest at Mr. Moore’s table was so repugnant that it could scarcely be tolerated; yet she felt a secret curiosity to meet the great anti-Semite again. She would, at least, have something of interest to report to Lionel; and although she could not introduce the subject of the Expulsion, she might indirectly glean an inkling of the Premier’s views. So—not without misgivings—she yielded, and promised to be there by the appointed time. Whether good or evil would come of the visit, however, remained to be seen; and as she left her friend, she felt as if she were about to trifle with edged tools.
CHAPTER II
AN ANTI-SEMITE STILL
The “she-dragon,” as Mamie unkindly dubbed Mrs. Lowther, did not care to accept the invitation to Ravenscroft Hall, and asked to be excused; so Patricia dressed herself in a simple evening-gown and drove off alone. Excitement had lent a touch of colour to her cheeks, and as the carriage swept up the avenue she trifled nervously with her long neck-chain of pearls. Arrived at the house, however, she soon regained her self-possession, and followed the footman up the stone staircase with her usual equanimity. The Countess received her with cordiality; but seemed curiously diffident. She glanced at the door every now and then with marked uneasiness; her mind was evidently—on some account—disturbed.
“The doctor has not been yet,” she said, in answer to Patricia’s enquiry. “I am expecting him every minute. I don’t quite like the look of Phyllis; she has been shivering so terribly. I do hope she isn’t going to be ill.”
“Has Mr. Moore seen her?”