Wolfstein's painted
face appeared. Lord Holme sprang up with undisguised relief.
"What d'you think of Pimpernel? Ah, Mr. Laycock--I heard your faithful
hands."
"Stunnin'!" roared Lord Holme, "simply stunnin'!"
"Stunnin'! stunnin'!" exclaimed Mr. Laycock; "Rippin'! There's no other
word. Simply rippin'!"
"The what? The what?" cried Mrs. Ulford.
Mrs. Wolfstein bent down, with expansive affection, over Lady Holme's
chair, and clasped the left hand which Lady Holme carelessly raised to a
level with her shoulder.
"You dear person! Nice of you to come, and in such a gown too! The angels
wear white lace thrown together by Victorine--it is Victorine? I was
certain!--I'm sure. D'you like Pimpernel?"
Her too lustrous eyes--even Mrs. Wolfstein's eyes looked
over-dressed--devoured Lady Holme, and her large, curving features were
almost riotously interrogative.
"Yes," Lady Holme said. "Quite."
"She's startled everybody."
"Startled!--why?"
"Oh, well--she has! There's money in it, don't you think?"
"Henry," who had accompanied his wife, and who was standing sideways at
the back of the box looking like a thief in the night, came a step
forward at the mention of money.
"I'm afraid I'm no judge of that. Your husband would know better."
"Plenty of money," said "Henry," in a low voice that seemed to issue from
the bridge of his nose; "it ought to bring a good six thousand into the
house for the four weeks.
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