At breakfast her mother looked at her and, with satisfaction, saw that she had gained a point nearer her object.
Dorise went into Bond Street shopping at eleven o’clock, still undecided whether to face Hugh or not. The shopping was a fiasco. She bought only a bunch of flowers.
But in her walk she made a resolve not to make further excuse. She would not ask her mother for the car, and Hugh, by waiting alone, should be left guessing.
On returning home, her mother told her of George’s acceptance of an invitation to lunch.
“There’s a matinee at the Lyric, and he’s taking us there,” she added. “But, dear,” she went on, “you look ever so pale! What is worrying you? I hope you are not fretting over that good-for-nothing waster, Henfrey! Personally, I’m glad to be rid of a fellow who is wanted by the police for a very serious crime. Do brighten up, dear. This is not like you!”
“I—well, mother, I—I don’t know what to do,” the girl confessed.
“Do! Take my advice, darling. Think no more of the fellow. He’s no use to you—or to me.”
“But, mother dear—”
“No, Dorise, no more need be said!” interrupted Lady Ranscomb severely. “You surely would not be so idiotic as to throw in your lot with a man who is certainly a criminal.”
“A criminal! Why do you denounce him, mother?”