CHAPTER IX
LUNCHEON FOR THREE
One Tuesday morning when Celia was having her harmony lesson at the Academy, the hall-porter entered the room with some importance, and handed her a visiting card. It bore the superscription, “Lady Marjorie Stonor,” and underneath was scribbled in pencil, “Am in town for two days. Can you see me?”
With some excitement the girl asked leave of her professor to be excused, and, gathering up her music-books, hastened from the room in glad expectancy. Lady Marjorie was standing in the hall, studying the concert notices. She was wearing some handsome sables, with Parma violets in her toque, at her throat, and on her muff, and she looked younger and prettier than ever, Celia thought.
“I couldn’t resist coming in to have a look at you,” she explained, after the first greetings were over. “I’ve only come up to London to see my solicitors, and I am going back to-morrow afternoon.”
“But you will spend the rest of the day with me, won’t you?” asked Celia, anxiously. “Now that you have come, I don’t want to let you go.”
Lady Marjorie smiled. “I shall be able to inflict my presence upon you till six o’clock,” she answered. “I have promised to dine with my brother Bexley at Eaton Square this evening, but I am free until then.”
They passed up the stairs and into the waiting-room, where the girl students whiled away their spare time with musical causerie. Lady Marjorie expressed surprise that musicians should ever have any nerves left at all, for the medley of discordant sounds which surrounded them was enough to shatter the strongest, she thought. Pianos to right of them, pianos to left of them, violins and voices above them, and the low rumbling of the practice organ below them—it was just like a foretaste of Pandemonium.
On the ledge of the book-case in the waiting-room were several letters addressed to various students. Celia had never received one at the Academy as yet, but there happened to be one for her to-day. The envelope was black bordered, and the hand-writing large and round.
“It is from Gladys Milnes,” she said; “but I was not aware that she was in mourning.”
“Haven’t you heard?” asked Lady Marjorie, with surprise. “I made sure Mr. Karne would have told you. Their uncle, Dr. Neville Williams, is dead; he died about three weeks ago. Geoffrey came up to town for the funeral; it is almost a wonder that you did not come across him.”