A little tremble of excitement rushes over Eleanor; the bell rings.
Sarah flings open the door, and Giddy Mounteagle sails into the room with Lady MacDonald. Mrs. Roche feels quite small and insignificant under the stranger's patronising smile.
Lady MacDonald raises her long-handled lorgnette to scrutinise her surroundings.
Giddy is conscious of the offending photograph. Eleanor draws forward the largest chair. Lady MacDonald sinks gracefully back among the cushions, her head poised on one side—she always holds it so. Some admirers once told her it was like a flower bending on its stem with the weight of its own beauty.
"Oh! the fog outside," she cries, with an affected little cough, first cousin to a sigh. "I suppose it rises from the river."
"Yes, and creeps into your soul, and clogs your brain," adds Giddy, "the yellow land of mist is not attractive."
"No one will turn up at your party to-morrow," says Eleanor, "if it doesn't lift."
"I never thought of that. The professionals will be stuck on the line, perhaps, and we shall have a songless, tuneless 'musical,' with only locals to eat our cakes."
"My husband has promised to fetch me to-morrow; I must be back in town by seven, for two or three evening engagements," says Lady MacDonald.
"Then I am glad mine is an afternoon," murmurs Giddy, "or I should not have secured you. It is delightful of dear Lord MacDonald to drive down."