The Edwardians Read Online Free

friend; indeed, it was largely owing to her friendship that Mrs. Levison was admitted into such society at all. The Archbishop’s Room, the Queen’s Room, the Tapestry Room, Little North, George III.’s, George III.’s Dressing room—she passed them all; they all bore names she did not want. Their counterparts would hang on cards beside the bell-indicator outside the pantry, for the information of the visiting maids and valets: the Tapestry Room: the Duchess of Hull; the Queen’s Room: H.E. the Italian Ambassador—thus the pantry indicator would read. Little North—a humble room, a bachelor’s room—Mr. Leonard Anquetil; but Anquetil, she reflected, would have no valet; he would be valeted by a Chevron footman. Anquetil was the lion of the moment; an explorer, he had been marooned for a whole winter somewhere near the South Pole in a snow-hut with four companions, one of whom had gone mad, but for some reason it was difficult to make him talk of his experiences; a pity, for they had been reported in all the papers; still, Polar sufferings were perhaps on the whole a bore, and, since one must certainly have the lion of the moment at one’s parties, it was perhaps just as well that he should not boringly roar. So she passed by the rooms, and found Lady Roehampton in the Chinese Room. “How nice to see you alone for a moment, Sylvia,”—as the experienced maid withdrew. The professional beauty was moving idly about the room looking like a loosened rose: she was wrapped in grey satin edged with swansdown. “How attractive you look, Sylvia; I don’t wonder that people get on chairs to stare at you. I don’t wonder that Romola Cheyne gets uneasy. But seriously, no one would believe that your Margaret was eighteen.” “Nor your Sebastian nineteen, Lucy dear.” They were intimate friends; they had known the undeniable facts, dates, and current gossip about each other’s lives from their youth upwards. Lucy sank on to the sofa. “Oh, these parties! Sylvia, dear, how very nice to snatch a moment with you alone. Really that old Octavia Hull is becoming too terrible for words; did you see how she dribbled at tea? She ought to be put out of the way. Sebastian nineteen—yes. Absurd. To think that you might be his mother.” “Or his mother-in-law,” thought Lady Roehampton; it was an idea that had occurred to her more than once. She did not utter this aloud, nor the supplementary remark, “Or his mistress,” which had entered her head for the first time that day. Instead, she said, “Speaking of Romola Cheyne, wasn’t she staying here last week?” Lucy knew from her tone that some revelation was imminent, and when she saw Lady Roehampton take up the blotting-book she instantly understood. “How monstrous!” cried Lucy, moved to real indignation; “how often have I told the groom of the chambers to change the blotting-paper, in case something of the sort should happen? I’ll sack him tomorrow. Well, what is it all about? It makes one’s blood run cold, doesn’t it, to think of the hands one’s letters might fall into? I suppose it’s a letter to . . .” and here she uttered a name so august that in deference to the respect and loyalty of the printer it must remain unrevealed. “No,” said Lady Roehampton, “that’s just the point: it isn’t. Look!” Lucy joined her at the mirror, and together they read the indiscreet words of Romola Cheyne. “Well!” said Lucy, “I always suspected that, and it’s nice to know for certain. But what I can’t understand, is how a woman like Romola could leave a letter like that on the blotting-pad. Doesn’t that seem to you incredible? She knows perfectly well that this house is always full of her friends,” said Lucy with unconscious irony. “Now what are we to do with it? The recklessness of some