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Updated: June 4, 2025
Neither she nor Leo Ulford replied to his question. "What's this key?" he repeated. "The key of Mr. Ulford's house, I suppose," said Lady Holme. "How should I know?" "I'm not askin' you," said her husband. He came a step nearer to Leo. "Why the devil don't you answer?" he said to him. "It's my latch-key," said Leo, with an attempt at a laugh. Lord Holme flung it in his face.
After writing this note Lady Holme hesitated for a moment, then she went to a writing table, opened a drawer and took out a tiny, flat key. She enclosed it in two sheets of thick note paper, folded the note also round it, and put it into an envelope which she carefully closed. After writing Leo Ulford's name on the envelope she rang again for the footman.
"Your boy has been instructing me in American mysteries," said Lady Holme. "Do take me to the ballroom, Sir Donald." Leo Ulford's good humour returned as abruptly as it had departed. Her glance at him, as she spoke, had seemed to hint at a secret understanding between them in which no one certainly not his father was included.
"That child is going to devastate London." Now and then Lady Holme glanced towards Sir Donald and his son. They seemed as untalkative as she was. Sir Donald kept on looking towards Mrs. Wolfstein's table. So did Leo. But whereas Leo Ulford's eyes were fixed on Pimpernel Schley, Sir Donald's met the eyes of Lady Holme.
He left the club in which the conversation had taken place, and, casting about for something to do, some momentary solace for his irritation and ennui, he bethought him of Sir Donald Ulford's invitation and resolved to make a call at the Albany. Sir Donald would be out, of course, but anyhow he would chance it and shoot a card. Sir Donald's servant said he was in. Carey was glad.
His wife saw that, despite the incident of Leo Ulford's midnight visit, Fritz had not really suspected her of the uttermost faithlessness, that it had not occurred to him that perhaps her love for him was dead, that love was alive in her for another man. Had his conceit then no limits? And then suddenly another thought flashed into her mind.
But Miss Schley did not intend to be interfered with by anything so easily trampled upon as an art. Speaking in her most clear and choir-boyish tones, she said to Leo Ulford: "Sit down, Mr. Ulford. You fidget me standing." Then turning again to Lady Holme she continued: "Mr. Ulford's been so lovely and kind. He came up all the way from Hertfordshire just to take care of marmar and me to-day.
She had read, with one glance at the fluttering pink eyelids, the story of the Leo Ulford's menage. Now, she was not preoccupied with any regret for her own cruelty or for another woman's misery. The egoism spoken of by Carey was not dead in her yet, but very much alive.
"I believe she acts in well, a certain sort of plays." A slow smile overspread Leo Ulford's face and made him look more like a huge boy than ever. "What certain sort?" he asked. "The sort I'd like?" "Very probably. But I know nothing of your tastes." She did everything almost. There are a good many Leo Ulfords lounging about London.
One of those women who are all shirt and collar and nattiness, with a gold fox for a tie-pin and a hunting-crop under the arm. She was killed schooling a horse in Mexico after making Ulford shy and uncomfortable for fifteen years. Lady Cardington and a Texas cowboy would have been as well suited to one another. Ulford's been like a wistful ghost, they tell me, ever since her death.
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