“I daresay you know where to go, so I sha’n’t worry about you,” replied Mrs. Wheeler. “You quiet ones are generally the worst.”
“I am sorry,” murmured Poppy; “I did not mean to be rude, or ungrateful.”
“You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “Is Mr. Fraser up in London?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the girl, pausing at the door.
“Sure to be, though,” said Mrs. Wheeler, significantly; “you won’t ’ave to starve, my dear. But, there, you know that—some people’s pride is a funny thing.”
Miss Tyrell regarded her for a moment in silence and then quitted the room, coming back again from half-way up the stairs to answer a knock at the door. She opened it slowly, and discovered to her horror Mr. Fraser standing upon the doorstep, with a smile which was meant to be propitiatory, but only succeeded in being uneasy.
“Is that Mr. Fraser?” demanded Mrs. Wheeler’s voice, shrilly.
“That’s me,” said Fraser, heartily, as he shook hands with Poppy and entered the room.
“I thought you wouldn’t be far off,” said Mrs. Wheeler, in an unpleasant voice. “Poppy’s been expecting you.”
“I didn’t know that Mr. Fraser was coming,” said Poppy, as the helpless man looked from one to the other. “I suppose he has come to see you. He has not come to see me.”