She had come to Long Island to
vegetate, and with all this going on round her vegetation was
impossible. She was not long alone. Wrench entered.
'A gentleman to see you, m'lady.'
In the good old days, when she had been plain Polly Davis, of the
personnel of the chorus of various musical comedies, Lady Wetherby
would have suggested a short way of disposing of this untimely
visitor; but she had a position to keep up now.
'From some darned paper?' she asked, wearily.
'No, m'lady. I fancy he is not connected with the Press.'
There was something in Wrench's manner that perplexed Lady
Wetherby, something almost human, as if Wrench were on the point
of coming alive. She did not guess it, but the explanation was
that Bill, quite unwittingly, had impressed Wrench. There was that
about Bill that reminded the butler of London and dignified
receptions at the house of the Dowager Duchess of Waveney. It was
deep calling unto deep.
'Where is he?'
'I have shown him into the drawing-room, m'lady.'
Lady Wetherby went downstairs and found a large young man awaiting
her, looking nervous.
Bill was feeling nervous. A sense of the ridiculousness of his
mission had come upon him. After all, he asked himself, what on
earth had he got to say? A presentiment had come upon him that he
was about to look a perfect ass.
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