Then Clare saw her. "Muriel, my dear! How perfectly ripping to see you again! My dear, it is good of you to have me. Behold me, a lone creature lost in London, and the Harribels, with whom I was to stay, all over measles and things."
"Very glad to have you, Miss Duquesne." Mr. Hammond rubbed a stiff hand across his chin, a sure sign, as Muriel knew, that he was pleased. "Now then, what about all this luggage, eh?"
Clare explained volubly. "Oh, I'm frightfully sorry, but, you see, I had to bring all my things from Germany because I don't know when I'm going back, and the side-saddle is because Jimmie Powell promised me a mount when I go to Ireland. And Fritz was a most embarrassing gift from a student. I was in such a hurry that I couldn't make up my mind what to do with him, so I brought him all the way through the customs and everything rolled up in the rugs, with my umbrellas. He hated it, and I don't really care for him, and if there's a lost dogs' home here, for goodness' sake let me dispose of him painlessly. Down, my friend, down!"
"Oh, he's not a bad little tyke," commented Mr. Hammond with the eye of a connoisseur. "But it's all this other stuff I'm thinking about. Look here, Miss Duquesne, can you manage to-night with one of these bag things and have the rest of the caboodle sent up to-morrow? My man's sick or I'd have him come down for 'em now."
"Of course I'll manage. Only, wait a minute." Clare stood meditating while the youngest porter wrestled valiantly with the dachshund, and the others gazed with tolerant amusement at the eccentricities of this young lady, who at least seemed to be worth a good tip. "Now the point is," continued Clare, looking as though for enlightenment at the youngest porter, "my night things are in that bag, but my yellow dress, which I must wear this evening, is in this trunk."
Muriel was about to say, "Oh, don't trouble about that, because we don't change at night," when she remembered that while Lord Powell's niece was staying at Miller's Rise they were to have late dinner.
"I know," cried Clare. "A sudden inspiration. Can you wait just two minutes? I'll take the dress from the trunk and put it into the case, and then we'll be all right. Yes, go on holding the dog, please. Muriel, chérie, take my gloves. Mr. Hammond, will you be an angel and undo these straps for me?"
Muriel gasped horror-stricken. Even Clare could surely not take these liberties with impunity. But Mr. Hammond seemed to have forgotten the new mare and to be reconciled to his novel rôle of angel. He knelt upon the platform, breathing heavily as he tugged at straps, unfastened locks, and chuckled to himself while Clare dived into a foam of tissue paper, billowing chiffon and frothing lace.
"There, just hold that a minute." Clare thrust a tray full of gossamer lingerie into the arms of the eldest porter, while she herself shook out the cloudy folds of primrose chiffon.
It must have been this that proved too much for the patience of Fritz. A fur-lined slipper fell from the tray, its fluffiness doubtless reminiscent of happy days of rabbiting. With a bound he broke from the hold of the youngest porter. A streak of yellow shot along the platform. The fur-lined slipper vanished, Mr. Hammond dropped the lid of the case, and the dachshund, free at last, forgot the tedium of his late experience.