"If Mr. Laycock's going the box won't be empty. So that's all right," she
rejoined. "Mr. Laycock will make enough noise to give the critics a lead.
And I suppose that's all Miss Schley wants."
"But it isn't!" said Lord Holme, violently letting himself down at the
knees and shooting himself up again.
"What does she want?"
"She wants you to be there."
"Me! Why?"
"Because she's taken a deuce of a fancy to you."
"Really!"
An iceberg had entered the voice now.
"Yes, thinks you the smartest woman in London, and all that. So you are."
"I'm very sorry, but even the smartest woman in London can't throw over
the Brayley's. Take another box for the second."
Lord Holme looked fearfully sulky and lounged out of the room.
On the following morning he strode into Lady Holme's boudoir about twelve
with a radiant face.
"It's all right!" he exclaimed. "Talk of diplomatists! I ought to be an
ambassador."
He flung himself into a chair, grinning with satisfaction like a
schoolboy.
"What is it?" asked Lady Holme, looking up from her writing-table.
"I've been to Lady Brayley, explained the whole thing, and got us both
off. After all, she was a friend of my mother's, and knew me in kilts and
all that, so she ought to be ready to do me a favour. She looked a bit
grim, but she's done it. You've--only got to tip her a note of thanks."
"You're mad then, Fritz!"
Lady Holme stood up suddenly.
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