“With your kind permission, madam,” he said, “I will call again to-morrow. Your ladyship may even need my humble attention.”
The dowager bridled at the insinuation.
“Call by all means,” she retorted, “but I shall have transferred myself to some locality where I can obtain trustworthy advice.”
When Mr. Stott had gone, the dowager pealed the bell, and almost squealed at Gladden when his emotionless face appeared at the door.
“Send Parsons to me at once, and order Betsy to pack my boxes.”
Peter Gladden bowed, smiled curiously, and departed. At the end of three minutes Parsons, the Lady Letitia’s confidential man, a thin, circumspect individual with a prim mouth and a long nose, marched in to receive his mistress’s orders.
“Parsons, we must leave Rodenham at once. Have the coach ready by one, and order Betsy to pack my trunks. Can we make Tunbridge Wells before dusk?”
Parsons bowed, and apologized for the roads—in that they had the bad taste to be execrably heavy.
“Drat the roads,” quoth the old lady, in a fine fume. “No decent folk should venture into this abominable wilderness. Where can we bait for the night, Parsons?”
“We can find a good inn at Grinstead, madam.”