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"Surely we have met before, Miss Lethbridge?" remarked Mrs. Tyndal. And you ought to have seen how Mrs. Senter's features sharpened, as she waited for me to stammer or blush. As far as the blush was concerned, she had her money's worth; and I only didn't stammer because I was obliged to stop and think before replying.
I couldn't bear to remember that I'd ever had bad thoughts, and doubts, so I was half sub-consciously nicer to him than I ever was before. Dick kept glaring at me, from his seat beside Mrs. Norton, and drawing his eyebrows together when he thought Sir Lionel wasn't looking. Going home, he got a chance for a few words, when Emily was speaking to her brother about Mrs. Senter's headache.
Ellaline promises to telegraph the moment Honoré arrives, and again when they're safely married, so as to give the understudy plenty of time to scuttle off the stage, before the guardian is informed that his charge has been taken off his hands. So you see, this makes it harder for me to know what to do about repeating Mrs. Senter's story.
I should hate that, because Mrs. Senter's nose is so magnolia-white, and the background of a magnificent feudal castle sets off her golden hair and brown eyes so passing well. There might be volumes of history, as well as romances, written about Bamborough Castle as Sir Walter Scott, and Harrison Ainsworth, and Sir Walter Besant knew.
Senter's revelations, the puzzle no longer exists. Of course, long ago, I made up my mind that there was a mistake somewhere, and that it wasn't on my side; still, I couldn't understand certain things. Now, there isn't one detail which I can't understand very well; and that's why I'm so ready to believe Mrs. Senter's story to be true.
The servants in the house seemed so respectable and nice, I can't think that one of them would have pried. And yet well, the truth is, I'm afraid of being catty, but I can't help putting Mrs. Senter's headache and my disturbed papers together in my mind. Two and two when put together, make four, you know. And her room in the Swanage hotel was next to mine.
In books, all villainesses who're worth their salt have little, sharp teeth and pointed nails. Mrs. Senter's teeth and nails are just like other women's, only better. Hers is pale gold, though her eyes are brown, and very soft when they turn toward Sir Lionel.
It seems meant, doesn't it? I was a dream to look at when we went to supper at that restaurant; which was one comfort. Mrs. Senter's things were no nicer than mine, and she was so interested in what I wore. Only she was a good deal more interested in Sir Lionel. "Everywhere I go, people are talking of you," she said. "You have given them exciting things to talk about."
No arm would have been strong enough to push it shut, not even Mrs. Senter's. The servants of the Royal Hotel were just waking up, but, of course, being Devonshire people, instead of being cross they were delightfully good-natured and smiling. Already it seemed as if the night's experience had been a dream, dreamed in that sleep.
And if Mrs. Senter will be as reasonable as you two in the matter of luggage we shall have plenty of room." "It is your car, and the idea of the tour is yours," said Mrs. Norton, very feminine and resigned, also feeling that my "cheek" deserved a tiny scratch. "I am pleased with whatever pleases you." Senter's maid. Good-bye, my Parisienne Angel. Your broken and badly repaired Audrie-Ellaline.