Dauntrey came quickly back to her, as to a refuge. The eyes of both
footmen rested upon her for an instant. They were almost, but not quite,
expressionless. Under control yet visible was surprise and animal
curiosity. The men knew Miss Grant by sight and reputation as "one of
the lucky ones," and she felt that they were wondering if she too had
lost all, and come whining to the "management" for a _viatique_.
"For heaven's sake let's stand out of the way," Dauntrey whispered, "so
every one won't know what we're after." They moved to a little distance,
and Lord Dauntrey began trying to make conversation, but could think of
nothing to say. Long pauses fell. Both tried not to look at the mirror
door, but their eyes were drawn there, as if by an unseen power behind
it. They could see themselves and each other in the glass. Mary thought
that no one could help noticing how anxious and strained were their
faces.
After some moments, which seemed long, the door opened without sound and
a woman appeared. She hung her head, and her face was concealed with a
veil such as Princess Della Robbia had worn when she came to Rose
Winter's flat. A footman with a yellow paper in his hand preceded the
drooping figure, steering toward the outer door of the Salle Schmidt, as
if going to the atrium. He had a peculiarly stolid air, as if performing
a business duty to which he was so used that he could do it very well
while other matters engaged his thoughts.
"_She's_ got something, anyhow," mumbled Lord Dauntrey, in a sickly
voice.
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