"Capital!--to find you alone," said Bobbie, taking a seat beside her.
"All the others at Dunscombe, I hear. And no news yet?"
Lady Niton, who had given him one inky finger--(a pile of letters just
completed lay beside her)--shook her head, looking him critically up and
down the while.
The critical eye, however, was more required in her own case. She was
untidily dressed, as usual, in a shabby black gown; her brown "front"
was a little displaced, and her cap awry; and her fingers had apparently
been badly worsted in a struggle with her pen. Yet her diminutive figure
in the drawing-room--such is the power of personality--made a social
place of it at once.
"I obeyed your summons," Bobbie continued, "though I'm sure Lady Lucy
didn't want to invite me with all this hubbub going on. Well, what do
you prophesy? They told me at the station that the result would be out
by two o'clock. I very nearly went to the Town Hall, but the fact is
everybody's so nervous I funked it. If Oliver's kicked out, the fewer
tears over spilled milk the better."
"He won't be kicked out."
"Don't make too sure! I have been hearing the most dismal reports.
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